


Let It Fall

by Buildyourwalls



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus and Scorpius are BFFLs, Anal Fingering, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Blaise has a weed empire, Blow Jobs, Canonical Character Death, Car Wanking, Clubbing, Dean has a Band, Divorce, Draco hates Shawn Mendes, Embracing Life, Everyone is basically Bisexual, F/M, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Going to Gigs, Grieving, Harry Potter Has Long Hair, Harry is Excellent dealing with panic attacks, Lads who are good dads, Leather Jackets, Lots of Mentions about the Sea, M/M, Minor Drug Use, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Daphne Greengrass, Music Lovers, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Linear Narrative, Off-Screen Miscarriage, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Pansy has Zero Fucks to Give, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Slow Burn, Sorry Shawn Mendes I do love you, The Ladies are BAMFs, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-10-17 08:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 116,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20617850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buildyourwalls/pseuds/Buildyourwalls
Summary: Draco doesn't think he can ever love another person as fully and fiercely as he had with Astoria. Until a newly divorced Harry Potter comes to her funeral and changes everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNINGS: Discussion of Miscarriage; Death of a Canonical Character; PTSD and Panic Attacks; Minor Drug Use and Shawn Mendes **  

> 
> *
> 
> **Story Info:**Title from Over The Rhine's "Let It Fall" - which is 100% the theme song to this fic. This story is pretty heavy on the Draco/Astoria content, but the explicit rating is for the lads. Other pairings take on a much more minor approach. 
> 
> *
> 
> **A/N:** When I first began writing this story, it had been close to ten years since I completed any kind of written work. The idea of two people grieving in their own way and finding their paths to each other through navigating their tragedies was something I felt very familiar with. I've never written anything of this magnitude before, and while there are several bits that are difficult to read, I hope that you give it a chance. 
> 
> I couldn't have completed this without the help of some very patient, incredible people along the way:  
**Lettered** \- For the first read through and hand holding when I was first in this fandom and needed a friend.  
**Kate_Marley, TheLightFury** \- first run through alphas when I had no friends and was like wtf am I doing?  
**InfiniKey** \- For the French translations and making Draco sound amazing.  
**LowerEastSide** \- For the Latin, and for your love.  
**Shealwaysreads** \- For the floral knowledge and general flailing <3  
**Trishjames, Aibidil, Maesterchill** \- Trish, thank you for all your input, your listening, your love of my snippets. And thank you for the beautiful insights that you provided to me when my story had weak moments I didn't even know needed help. Aibidil, thank you for being a fucking queen and showing up at the 11th hour and helping a girl out with a speedy AF beta. I am so eternally grateful for your love. And Maester, thank you for being a brilliant fucking Britpicker, for combing over this thing with a fine tooth comb and for setting aside family, work, and any other personal obligations you had so that I could get this done before AO3 decided to delete my draft. Each of you ladies are such incredible human beings, and I am forever indebted to your kindness and support.
> 
> To my pals who have listened to me bitch and moan about the fic even when they didn't ask for it. There are too many people to list in that regard, but if you have come and gone, I still hold a tremendous amount of gratitude for you. 
> 
> To my wonderful partner, who encouraged me to continue on when I didn't think it would ever end, and for his undying support and believing in me as a writer. 
> 
> And last, but certainly not least, to my angel baby Alex. Thank you for teaching me that life continues through grief and for giving me a second chance at living again.

*.*.*.*

**Wizengamot United to Bring Wizards and Muggles together! He Who Must Not Be Named will NEVER happen again - ****_Wizard Quarterly (July 1998)_**

** _Couple of the Century Crowned! Harry and Ginny are engaged! - Accio News (Jan 2000)_ **

**_“_****_Ceremony of the Century - The Saviour Marries!_****_”_** **_Enchanted Enquirer_****_ (December 2001) _**

_“Can You Hear Me Now? Muggle Cell phones LEGAL” - Daily Prophet (March 2003)_

** _“New Decade, Same Couple! Harry and Ginny WIN AGAIN!” - Daily Prophet (January 2010)_ **

_“Thank you for tuning in this evening with WWN: We hope 2019 is great for all of you! And with that, polls are leaning toward crowning Harry and Ginny Potter for the ninth year in a row as Wizarding Couple of the Year! Wonder what the happy couple is doing right now...” _

*.*.*.*

  
  


**-April 2019-**

  


On an abnormally sunny Tuesday afternoon, in a large office near Muggle London, Harry Potter settles his divorce. 

“If you want, we can continue the details about publi— Harry? Are you hearing me?”

Harry blinks and turns his gaze from the window. It’s beautiful outside—nothing but crisp blue sky and bright light. He can see a small surge of wildflowers in the distance, peeking around the square, and he aches to be on his broom. Spring has always been his favourite time of year—it has the best flying weather. 

“Hm?”

“I know that this is a difficult time, but it is imperative that we discuss the terms of how you would like the press to—”

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “No statements.”

Neville folds his hands on top of his desk and stares at Harry. “I understand your reticence to discuss such a personal matter publicly, Harry, but you don’t really have a choice considering your influence.”

“My ‘influence’,” Harry echoes wryly. 

It’s been over two decades since the Second War and Harry Potter’s prominence remains a staple in the wizarding world, frustrating Harry’s personal life and his vault account. When Ginny became pregnant with James, forcing her into retirement from the Harpies, she demanded Harry hire help. Their relationship had become too high profile to ignore, and she was desperate to safeguard the baby’s privacy. Neville came with glowing reviews, and Harry trusted him; they had, after all, fought in a war together. 

How Neville kept Ginny's pregnancy out of the public eye until James was almost two months old, and hold the publications to two press releases with an extraordinary payback, Harry will never know. As a result, Neville has a direct funds transfer to pay for invoices and a retainer that would knock the knickers off McGonagall herself.

Neville’s expression softens to one of sympathy. “Look,” he says with delicacy, “I know you don’t want to announce your divorce to the masses. In fact, I hate that it's necessary. But as your solicitor, it’s my duty to inform you the best plan of action for sensitive situations such as these.”

Harry takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. He is abruptly and overwhelmingly tired. The ink hasn’t even dried on the parchment and he has to strategise about journalists looking for an opportunity to exploit the failure of his marriage. 

His mind travels back to Ginny. Harry had hoped to see her, but by the time he arrived at Neville’s office, she was gone. He took care to conceal his disappointment.

It has been eight months of Harry sharing very few requisite minutes with her—often during their delivery of the children for holiday visitations or first day of school send-offs—the tension high and electric. Eight months of Ginny avoiding looking at Harry, taking more time than necessary to fuss over the kids. Eight months of nothing more than polite salutations and goodbyes.

Harry stands and walks to the large window of Neville's office, hands clasped behind his back. The sky is endless, and the itch in his palms grows. His skin buzzes with the sudden urge to get away. He wishes with vigour for a Muggle driving licence. It would be so easy to drive somewhere, anywhere—wind on his face, the heat soaking into his skin, nothing but a stretch of motorway, and endless possibilities. 

Today would be perfect for that.

“Harry,” Neville says, his tone shifting to concern, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk. “If you want, we can settle this another day. I can put it off for a while, but I—” 

“Do it,” Harry interrupts, casting a glance at Neville before turning back to the sky. “But keep the kids out of it… and Ginny. They’ve been through enough.”

Neville nods, reaching for his quill and a fresh piece of parchment. “We can have that arranged.”

“Good.” Harry feels restless. There is too much tension in his shoulders and the scratch of Neville's quill makes his fingertips twitch. 

He swallows, bracing himself when he asks, “When she was here… did she—I mean—”

Neville sets his quill down and waits. 

“Did she say anything when she came by?” Harry asks tentatively.

The stillness sits for a long time. When Harry chances a glance at Neville, he can tell that he's choosing his words with care. Harry is close to recanting when Neville speaks.

“She asked how you were doing,” Neville concedes.

“And?”

Neville's response takes the space of a few beats before he speaks. “I told her you were handling it as well as you can. That's the truth, isn't it?”

Harry nods, but the chilly panic thrums over his spine, a crashing wave in his chest. Ginny was the person who saw Harry at his worst, shaking and sweating in the dark from nightmares of death, murmuring soft words of encouragement in a sleep-laden voice urging him back to reality. She listened when he whispered about that year on the run, scared and starving. She held onto him when he confessed about choosing to live instead of dying. 

Harry has the immediate urge to get the fuck out, and he rushes for the door as he instructs, “Owl me if you have any other concerns. I’ll have the invoice paid by end of day.”

“Hey, Harry?” 

Harry continues to stare at the doorknob.

There's a breath of silence before Neville whispers, voice tight with sincerity. “I'm very sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Harry exits as fast as he can, not looking back.  


An owl carrying a folded piece of parchment from Neville flies into Harry’s work office later that evening. The statement hits the press at end of August.

_‘Wanted the kids to have a calm summer’,_ it reads.

The parchment crumples in his hand and he pitches it in the bin. 

Just as well.  


**\--**

  
As a part of the divorce settlement, Ginny gets Grimmauld Place.

It makes sense, really. Harry says it’s because he didn’t want to cause upheaval to his family, that it’s the only home the kids have ever known. They were born there, had their first steps there. The memories are embedded into the very magic of the house.

Grimmauld Place never belonged to Harry. It belonged to Sirius and his family, was his godfather’s ancestral home, and even he ran away from it. Harry received it by default, a gift from a relationship that had infinite hopes and possibilities but in the end was hopelessly ephemeral. All that remains of family is the idea of legacy, their vaults, and their worn memories. 

After the war ended and Harry moved into the townhouse, it was damp, dusty, and tattered. Hermione often asked if he needed help rearranging the furniture, removing screaming portraits, and mending the magic of the house. Harry declined. 

He didn’t care about the aesthetics of the place. To him it was free lodging and one less concern while he immersed himself in becoming an Auror. Between travel for training and seeing Ginny during the holidays while she finished at Hogwarts, Harry didn’t have time to focus on interior decorating. 

In truth, he spent his free time at Ron and Hermione’s. They had lived in a tiny flat all the way in Croydon before settling in their Ottery St Catchpole cottage. But even then their rough little flat was warm, lively, and safe. Harry relied on their presence during that year, the prospect of being alone with nothing but his thoughts and a less-than-enthusiastic house elf too depressing. He had seen his fair share of all things depressing. 

He often believed he was overstaying his welcome, but he and Ron were in the same training class, and Hermione had late nights at St Mungo’s as a resident healer, so it worked. They had grown accustomed to living together, the only difference being they weren’t on the run, scared for their lives. They no longer had to concern themselves with how they would make it to the next day. But loneliness was another monster altogether. 

They never talked about the nightmares. 

Harry couldn't stop seeing death in his sleep, couldn't stop hearing Voldemort's soul lying under a bench, couldn't shut out the wails of sadness and fear. That anguish breathed within the walls of Grimmauld Place like a foul miasma.

Then Ginny graduated and moved in. She had a few months before her tryouts with the Harpies began, and nothing but time in between trainings. Harry was working often and late, and she filled those moments with renovating their home. Harry would come home to find the walls repaired and painted and new furniture for the bedrooms. Another late evening, he stood silently in the doorway and watched as Ginny painstakingly repaired the Black family tapestry, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she added Harry’s name under the vibrant golden embroidered scrawl of Sirius. 

That was the moment Harry knew he was, without a doubt, in love with her. 

Harry’s new home is nothing like Grimmauld Place: an elegant, newer construction flat in Hampstead. He chose it as a fresh beginning after his divorce. He wanted to have something beautiful, welcoming, and most of all, his own. The crown moulding, pergo floors, and plush furniture are all safe from rejection and pain and trauma. It’s the fresh start Harry has always wanted. 

He tells himself all of this, despite the unease of silence that’s in the air when he comes home. He tells himself that he loves the way the sunset spills onto the bright walls, even though they are bare. He tells himself that he finds comfort here, lounging in his living room while watching random Muggle shows on the telly, but when he reaches out to brush his fingertips across the nape of Ginny’s neck, his hand falls through the air and lands heavy on his thigh.

Sometimes, late at night when he’s lying in bed, Harry hears a faint echo of his children laughing and wonders if this flat knows just how lonely he really is.  


***.*.*.***

  
Draco hates hospitals. He hates the sterile smell, the over-bright lights, the cold, cold air. He especially hates being in the small cramped office of Healer Howard Smith.

The office is too small for the large oak desk encompassing over half the space. Accolades, training certifications, and photos of hosted events cover every bit of the pale yellow walls. When a wave of nausea hits, Draco tells himself it’s from the inconsistent flutter of the pictures and not from what being in this room means. 

He stares out the only window. Nothing but clear blue skies as far as he can see, speckled by the brightness of the sun. In the distance, there’s a flock of geese coalescing into a perfect vee formation. Draco wishes he could be amongst the birds right now or channel days of his youth, flying around on his broomstick at the manor. 

Astoria’s hand brushes against his, and they fold together comfortably, fingers laced. 

“Please don’t fret,” she murmurs. 

“That’s a particularly difficult task considering the circumstances.”

Astoria frowns, taking a sudden interest in the decorated walls. “I know,” she says in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry.”

Draco lifts her hand to place a gentle kiss on her wrist. “Don’t apologise, there's nothing to—” He swallows. “It’s just—” 

“I know,” Astoria says. “I know.”

Then the office door clicks open presenting Healer Smith, a short man with a wiry, bushy mustache that reminds Draco of Professor Flitwick. The wizened man shuffles to his chair and taps his wand on the arm, a loud groan emitting as it adjusts for his height. Once comfortable, the Healer pulls from the folds of his robes a stack of parchment he briefly studies before setting on the desk. He folds his hands on top of them and clears his throat.

“Mr and Mrs Malfoy, we have looked over the latest test results and it appears that the condition is causing the blood cells to degrade at a more aggressive rate than we had anticipated. Unfortunately, because of the hereditary link, and the body’s rejection of potions and treatments to slow progression, we recommend a move to palliative care.” 

“What...what does that mean?” Astoria asks, her eyebrows furrowing. 

“It means that we can provide assistance for you in the way of managing your pain and other distressing symptoms. We can also assist with any psychological, social, and even spiritual support for you and your family. However,” Healer Smith says and frowns, “actual treatment of the condition is no longer indicated.”

Draco blinks, glances to Astoria staring into the distance. Her eyes widen in disbelief and she shakes her head, small wisps of brown hair falling over her cheek. 

Astoria’s mouth opens and closes before she babbles. “I—I don't understand, I mean—two months ago it was getting better and, and—” Astoria’s voice catches and her mouth slams shut so hard that Draco hears the clatter of teeth. 

Draco’s stomach lurches. He will surely be sick in this Healer’s office and he doesn’t care: fuck decorum and class. His face is burning and his vision blurring. This can’t be happening. None of this can be happening. He’s just in some insane, demented dream and surely Draco will wake up and they’ll be home in their humble cottage on the beach, Astoria next to him, peaceful and beautiful in her slumber. He'll wake her up this time, maybe even tell her about this terrible dream. She will listen and they’ll go back to sleep, just the two of them, the crashing waves of the ocean their lullaby.

He waits for the nightmare to end, but the air is so thick and warm. Draco pulls at the collar of his shirt to catch a solitary breath, to help unclench the vice grip in his chest so he can finish this. Soon it can be a distant thought, a vague idea, and he can bury it away.

But reality sets in. 

This isn’t a dream Draco will wake up from. Astoria’s face contorts in confusion and anguish, her chin quivering, eyes scared and unsure as she ducks her head, drawing in a deep and slow breath. She clutches Draco’s hand, the pressure a firm ache.

Healer Smith speaks again, but his voice sounds morphed and distorted, making Draco unable to comprehend a single word. He’s dizzy, the room tilting on its axis and Draco wonders for a brief moment if he will faint, but he gets his bearings. There's something more important he needs to know, one more question he needs to pose that is imperative.

“How long?” Draco interrupts, his voice shaking. He hates how he sounds right now: broken, scared, small. He hates that his emotions are so open, so obvious, so raw. But knowledge overpowers emotion.

“Given the rarity of the condition and the lack of research, we cannot provide an exact—”

“I don’t give a bloody fuck about your research; I want to know how long we have!” Draco explodes, pivoting forward and slamming a fist onto the desk. Astoria’s grip unravels from their clasped hands to gently grasp at his knee.

“Draco,” she murmurs, her head finally lifting. Their gazes meet and Draco’s anger bleeds away. 

Healer Smith’s eyes flicker between them before he leans back in his chair, a solemn expression on his face. “Given the aggressive behaviour of the curse, I would estimate four to six months.”

The colour vanishes from Astoria's face, her mouth gaping in shock. Draco's eyes sting, dampness threatening the edges, and his throat grows tight as he finally tears his eyes away from Astoria to stare at the corner of Healer Smith’s desk. He blinks to assuage the sudden, overwhelming urge to lose his composure in this stifling office. 

“Four...four _months_,” Astoria repeats, breathless. “That’s barely—that’s—I may not be able to see Scorpius start his third—?” 

And now Draco cannot stop the tears from spilling over as Astoria covers her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. Draco reaches for her then, wrapping his arms around her frail, quivering body. He whispers soft assurance as Astoria’s small hands fist his waistcoat, tears damp on his neck as she keens. Everything inside of him shatters.

“I am truly sorry about this,” Healer Smith says, his voice a distant sound to Draco’s ears, but sympathetic nonetheless. “I wish there were more options.”

August is in four months. Scorpius will begin his third year.  


**\--**

  
Over the next several weeks, Astoria leaves the cottage before Draco awakens, and returns in the afternoons after lunchtime. When he enquires about her activities, she tells him she’s out with friends, working on the farming co-op up the road, or shopping with Daphne and Pansy.

He knows there’s more going on, but he doesn’t press the issue. Astoria will tell him when she’s ready—if she’s ready. When he tries to talk about her illness, Astoria refuses and says, “There’s no reason to go over this again, Draco. Nothing will change.” 

So Draco takes the time alone to continue his research. His determination to find ways of extending Astoria's life has become a growing obsession despite his wife's calm acceptance of her fate. He reads Muggle medical studies about bloodborne illnesses and innovative treatment plans; looks into “alternative medicine” only to find it’s a load of bollocks. He reads and reads, searching the internet for hours, losing himself in case studies he finds in Muggle libraries. 

His current rabbit trail is a new chemotherapy whose symptomatology is not as aggressive. Unlike typical chemo, the common side effects of chronic nausea, fatigue, and hair loss are almost nonexistent. Perhaps they could discuss this with Healer Smith and Hermione if Astoria will _listen_.

He glances down at his wristwatch for the time. Astoria’s been gone for almost the whole afternoon. 

When illness took a toll on Astoria’s health while she was pregnant with Scorpius, the urge to keep her safe and comfortable became priority. Draco wanted to start somewhere new, somewhere that was bright and bold and the complete antithesis of Malfoy Manor. It was Astoria's idea to move to the coast, her love of the sea luring them there. The hamlet they settled in is much smaller than their respective ancestral lands and manors, the vast difference the precise bulk of its appeal.

When she leaves like this, Draco’s mind wanders, fueling the never-ending anxiety in the pit of his stomach. Astoria knows about his chest pains and nightmares, but she doesn’t comment on them directly, just places a casual hand on Draco’s shoulder before conjuring a glass of cold water for him. Sometimes, when the sensation hits so acute and sudden, she opens the windows and allows the sea breeze to fill the room, humid air tangy with salt, instructing Draco to close his eyes, take deep breaths, and listen to the sea.

He's looking for his mobile as the fireplace flashes bright green and Astoria emerges. Her hair sits in a loose plait, falling over one shoulder, and she’s wearing her favourite wizarding robes—a dark purple satin with sparkling gold filigree around the edges. Her skin looks paler than usual with dark circles under eyes, and cheeks flushed. 

“I was just about to ring you,” Draco says, as he rises from his chair, setting down his laptop. “I didn’t know when you would be back and—”

Astoria continues to brush Floo dust off her robes, takes one glimpse at Draco, and walks over to the french doors to open them. The smell of the sea and sand immediately wafts into the room, melodic tones of the waves calming Draco’s shattered nerves. A slow, appreciative smile creeps across his face.

“I'm going to make some tea,” Astoria says, now meticulously arranging a vase of fresh daisies on the coffee table. She turns towards the kitchen. 

Everything about the living room is Astoria. Draco sees her in the bright teal pillows scattered across the loveseat, the crocheted blanket laid over the white wicker chair, the artfully placed framed photos on the mantel—some that she took with her new muggle camera, something called a DSLR. The pictures don’t move, which took time to become accustomed to; Draco studies them religiously in the evenings during the sunset, completely in awe with Astoria’s keen eye.

A few moments later, Astoria enters the room carrying two steaming mugs. She hands one to Draco before settling down on the loveseat, tucking her legs under her robes. He takes a careful sip, a comfortable silence lapsing between them before he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

Astoria looks into her mug. “I think we need to be honest with ourselves, listen to the Healers, and plan to have the best summer we've ever had.”

“I’m not going to give up on this...on _you_.”

Astoria fixes her gaze on him and quirks a dark eyebrow. “Acceptance isn’t giving up.” 

“Are you saying you believe what Healer Smith told us?” At her silence, Draco shakes his head, tendrils of unease prickling along his spine. “Astoria, we need to get a second opinion!” Draco declares. He sets the mug down on the mantel and paces. “It is completely impossible that his estimation is correct. I just read a case study about a blood curse that infected a family for twenty generations, and—”

“Hermione recommended Healer Smith because he is the leading expert on blood-borne diseases,” Astoria reasons. “Including those that are curse-based,” she adds when Draco opens his mouth to argue. “Draco, no one who has this curse lives longer than forty in our family. It’s written in our history.”

“But they didn’t have the information or technology that we have now!” Draco insists. 

Astoria sets her mug down with care on the coffee table and rises from the sofa. Draco stops pacing when she places a gentle hand on his elbow, his shoulders sagging in exhaustion and defeat. 

“I don’t know how you can just accept this,” he whispers hoarsely, peering out the window in front of him. The sky is cloudy and grey and it reminds him of the Scottish skies, of the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts with the wind smacking against his boyish face as he chases a mess of black hair.

Astoria’s touch is gentle and warm on his arm. Draco shakes his head free from those inconvenient imaginations and turns to her. “Don’t you want to…to _live_?” 

“Darling,” Astoria whispers, cupping his face. Her hands are small, comforting and reassuring. “I am so sorry that you have to deal with this unbearable situation. If I could take away all this pain for you, I would.”

Draco clasps his hands around her wrists, leaning forward so their foreheads touch. His voice shakes when he speaks. “I can't lose you,” he whispers. 

“You won’t,” Astoria promises. “I will make sure of that.”  


**-June 2019-**

  
“Thanks for coming with me, mate,” Harry says to Ron as they watch Grimmauld Place expand into view. It’s Harry’s weekend with the kids, and mercifully Hermione and Ron have volunteered to have a small sleepover with all the children for a night as Harry catches up on work. There’s a heavy presence of guilt that he’s handing off the first weekend of their summer holiday to their aunt and uncle, but needs must.

Ron gives Harry’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Of course. I know it’s hard to wrangle the whole lot alone. Besides, Rose is chuffed to show off the new Fortnite upgrade. She’s determined to kick Jamie’s arse.”

Harry chuckles as they walk to the gate, surrounded by the familiar magical thrum of the wards. It settles oddly, leaving Harry unbalanced. 

“Do the wards feel different to you?” Harry asks as they reach the top of the steps in front of the door. 

Ron considers the question and shakes his head. “Why?”

The door opens to Lily’s glowing and happy face; she flings herself around Harry's waist. Harry squeezes her shoulders in a tight hug as he gently hauls her into the hallway, listening to her natter about a new game she’s downloaded on her mobile. 

“You collect dragons,” she goes on at a rapid pace, leading them to the kitchens down below, “and then you get money, and you can level them up, and then buy more dragons and—”

“Lily,” Ginny says exasperatedly, her head inside the larder. “I told you to go upstairs and finish packing!” When she pops out to continue her admonishment, she glances between Ron and Harry and raises an eyebrow, holding her gaze on Harry. “Too scared to come alone?” 

“That’s my cue,” Ron interjects pointing to the ceiling, and taps Lily on the shoulder. “Show me your favourite dragon while I make a valiant attempt to peel your brothers away from their Xbox.”

Lily snorts. “Good luck with that!” she says as she follows Ron out of the room, continuing her dragon monologue.

Ginny flicks her wand towards the hob, unduly concentrating on the kettle with an enthused sense of attention, her back facing Harry. Her hair sits up halfway, soft curls cascading down her back, a flattering black dress stretching over her hips. Harry’s never seen that in her wardrobe before. 

“Did you change the wards?” Harry asks, choosing to focus on a more salient subject than his ex-wife’s new sartorial choices. 

Ginny turns, furrowing her eyebrows. “No?”

Harry glances towards the wide, glass-paned kitchen doors that leads out to the garden. It’s engulfed in black, the night sky a velvet canvas. Even the moon is hiding. 

“They felt different.”

Ginny turns away with a frown. “The house knows you don’t live here anymore.” 

Harry tightens his hands into fists and tries to quell the clawing grief inside of his chest. The tension between them is palpable, thick, and suffocating. 

He changes the subject. “Going somewhere?” 

“Yes,” Ginny says as the kettle whistles. She spells two mugs out of the cabinet, adding milk and sugar to one before floating it over to Harry. “I’m going on a date.”

Harry almost spills the tea over himself. He takes too big of a gulp, burning his tongue. _Fucking hell_. Ginny doesn’t miss a beat, her lips resting over the rim, blowing even breaths, eyes focused on Harry. 

“Is this going to be a problem for you?” Ginny asks, expression inscrutable.

Harry shrugs, shaking his head. “Of course not.”

She stares at Harry for a minute before taking a calculated sip of her tea. “Good.”

And then there’s the stampede of footsteps down the stairs, a burst of protests from the kids, coupled with a sharp whistle and Ron piping, “Oi, you lot, quit it, or I will have your Aunt Hermione make you read the whole history of Ingolfr the Iambic, _including_ the poems!”

Ginny and Harry turn towards the cacophony, and then each other, before breaking into laughter. 

“Oi, Harry!” Ron yells from upstairs, “Quit your lollygagging, say bye to Gin, and let’s go!”

“You better go,” Ginny says with amusement. “Don’t want Ron bursting another blood vessel in his eye. Hermione will shit kneazles.”

“I heard that!” 

“You were meant to!” 

Harry walks to the stairs, stops, and turns back to Ginny. “You look beautiful, by the way.” 

Ginny’s eyes widen in surprise, a hint of pink blossoming high on her cheeks. “Thank you.”

Harry nods and ascends the stairs. Later, when he’s alone at Ron and Hermione’s in their small living room, files and paperwork spread across his lap, all he can think about is the way Ginny’s hair curled over her shoulders in perfect, flowing waves. 

Then he realises the last time he took Ginny out for a date, a proper date, was before Lily was born.  


**\--**

  
Harry mentions Ginny’s date later that week at lunch with Hermione. They’re sitting in their usual spot, a sequestered corner of a frequented wizarding cafe near St Mungo’s, used for both proximity to Hermione’s job and also for the amazing coffee. This week Harry is in charge of the food, so he brought their favourite: Indian takeaway.

Hermione’s fork stops midway to her semi-open mouth, butter chicken threatening to kamikaze onto her pristine lime-green robes. Harry’s cheeks flush at the obvious shock on her face and he averts his eyes, his vindaloo suddenly in desperate need of deep inspection. 

“Harry,” she begins, her tone cautious as she sets her fork down. “I don’t understand how you’re surprised about this.”

“I’m not,” Harry says. Hermione looks unconvinced. “I’m not!” 

“You have been separated for over a year. What did you expect?”

Harry stabs at the basmati rice, the fork standing in a solitary salute, his ravenous appetite vanished. He didn’t know what he expected, if he was being honest with himself. He isn’t arrogant enough to assume that Ginny would be abstinent—hell, he’s had more than enough one-night stands to help assuage sexual frustrations—but he wouldn’t say he is dating. 

The way she looked that night, it was obvious it wasn’t just for a shag. Ginny wouldn’t put in that kind of effort unless it was something serious. Harry knows it isn’t fair to Ginny to assume she would remain single alongside him. He just didn’t expect that it would affect him this way. 

When he chances a glance at Hermione again, her eyebrows remain raised in anticipation. He shrugs. 

“Don’t you want her to be happy?” 

“Yes,” Harry replies without hesitation. “Of course I do, it’s just...” He trails off, slouching back in his chair before crossing his arms against his chest. “I don’t want it to be...” He gestures with a vague wave around the cafe. 

Hermione takes another bite.

“She’s my family,” Harry says, “I don’t want to lose that.”

Hermione’s expression shifts, the frown on her face morphing to one of concern and sympathy. Her brown eyes shine a little, and Harry turns his attention to the other patrons and their lunch. He can’t look at her when she gets like this, it makes his chest bubble in that all-too-familiar way that only Hermione can accomplish. 

“You’re never going to lose that, Harry.”

“Right.”

“Harry,” she starts, her voice tight. 

“I spoke to Neville,” Harry says, in a feeble attempt to change the subject. “I have to give a statement for the Daily Prophet in August. I told him to leave Ginny and the kids out of it.”

Hermione waits for Harry to speak. He can tell that she isn't buying it. She clears her throat. “You don’t have to deal with this alone, you know. Ginny is just trying to figure things out. It takes time.”

“So you’ve told me,” Harry mutters flatly. 

“Have you considered that she’s waiting for you to come around? You’ve lived in that flat for almost ten months. I mean, have you ever asked her over?”

“What’re you on about? She comes over all the time!” 

“I don’t mean when it’s the obligatory kid-swap, Harry.” Hermione rolls her eyes. “I mean have you ever genuinely asked her to come over to _talk_?”

Harry sighs. He pushes the takeaway container to the middle of the table, his appetite vanishing. Hermione demanded these lunch dates two weeks after he had moved out and separated from Ginny. He considered it a nuisance at first; after all, the last thing he wanted was to discuss the failures of his marriage, but he quickly realised that Hermione avoided the topic of his divorce. He found himself appreciating their time together. 

She never mentioned Ginny without being prompted, nor did she ever ask about the catalyst that resulted in the ultimate break. Instead, she would ask about his week, about her godchildren, or about his work. Hermione did this, despite the demands at St Mungo’s, the demands of being a mother of two, and the demands of being married to one Ron Weasley.

When Harry asked why she did this for him, she blinked and said, “Because I love you, Harry.” As if it was the most obvious reason in the world. 

Harry understands that he has people who love him. He’s aware that Ron and Hermione have literally risked their lives for him before, but everything is different now. They have their own family, they have jobs, they have responsibilities. Harry has those things, too, but in his times of uncertainty, he always had Ginny to keep him steady. She kept him sane and safe.

Now he doesn’t have Ginny, and Ginny doesn’t want him. She’s dating someone else, and maybe this new person will keep her steady and make her feel safe. Maybe this new person will be there for her when she needs them the most instead of running away from all the questions, requests, and commitments.

Maybe this new person will give Ginny everything he never could.

Harry is jolted from his thoughts by the warm clasp of Hermione’s hand, stretched across the table, to rest on his elbow. Her eyes are so full of sadness that Harry has to look away for a moment. His arms unfurl from across his chest and he entwines her fingers with his. He doesn’t want to make her feel this way, but it’s been ten months since he moved into his flat, and he’s realising the loneliness that surrounds him when he comes home alone every night. Harry hates the awkward visitations, he hates the way the kids stare with longing at the fireplace for a firecall from their mother. He hates that he did this to himself and that how he’s losing everything. 

“Harry, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t want to lose my family,” Harry confesses, interrupting her. “Not when I didn’t have much to begin with.”

“Talk to her,” Hermione insists. “Make time and talk to her.”

A buzz whistles into the air and Hermione reaches into her robes and pulls out her mobile. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she says, her voice filled with regret. “I have to get going.”

They hug and depart and while Harry won’t admit it, he feels better, even if it’s marginal. He considers going back to work, but is too distracted and he knows if something pressing happens that Tracy, his secretary, will contact him. He sends her a courtesy text asking to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon.

Harry Apparates home.


	2. Chapter 2

** **-June 2019-** **

  
It takes nearly a fortnight before Harry sends an owl to Ginny to see if she would like to meet for a drink. He suggests a Muggle pub, the Holly Bush, which is not too far from his flat and is quiet with good enough food to appease Ginny.

An hour later, the familiar barn owl pecks at the window of his flat. Harry greets the small owl with a smile as he perches on Harry’s shoulder to take the treat before returning home.

Ginny’s response is succinct and passive, but she accepts the invite, suggesting next Friday. _If work doesn’t hold you too late_, she writes. 

The short missive stings, but maybe he deserves that.

\--

Harry is late by nearly a half hour. He’s lucky he had a change of clothes at the office or he would have been later. He hopes Ginny is still there.

Ginny is tucked away in a corner booth, a half-full pint in front of her, and to Harry’s surprise, sees her playing on a mobile. It must be new. 

He was pleased when Muggle technology was introduced with the Revitalisation Law. The ruling was made soon after the Second War as a means to appease a growing demand to find new and innovative solutions to minimise the chances of another racist megalomaniac rising into power. That, and to enable integration by affording the wizarding community a unique—and fun—way to understand Muggleborns and their society.

Ginny supported the law as much as Harry did, and in those early years after the war they both lobbied for its passing. But after Lily’s birth, Ginny couldn’t venture into Muggle London anymore. The noise of the cars, the overwhelming throng of people coming and going from the tube, and the sheer abundance of unpredictability unravelled her ability to exist in that environment. Even during the proceedings of their divorce, it took a considerable amount of energy for Ginny to make her way over, each trip to Neville’s office leaving her ragged and exhausted. 

Their children have never known a life without Muggle technology, music, or art. In a lot of ways, it’s helped Harry learn more about the world of his mother, a life that he never had a chance to experience with the Dursleys. He sometimes considers, in his more bitter moments, the irony of the lengths his aunt and uncle underwent to avoid providing Harry a normal, albeit Muggle life, just because of their hatred towards his parents.

Harry gives an apologetic look as he approaches the table. “Have you been here long?” He shrugs out of his leather jacket and scarf before scooting into the opposite vinyl bench of the booth. 

Ginny sets her mobile down and replies. “Long enough. Good thing for Candy Crush,” she nods to the phone. “Or I would’ve buggered off ages ago.”

“I shall extend my gratitude to Candy Crush and its addictive incentives.”

Ginny smiles and wraps her hands around her pint glass. “The kids love it and asked me to give it a go. After about three days of nonstop playing, Jamie demanded his mobile back and I had to get my own.”

“And how did you handle the mean streets of Muggle London?” Harry teases with a smile. He rests his elbows on the table. 

Ginny pauses. “I didn’t. Mark got it for me.”

It clicks quickly that Mark must be the person that took Ginny on her date. Now there’s a name attached to this new person. The silence verges on uncomfortable before Harry realises he should say something. 

“I’m, er, I’m—” He flicks a thumb over his shoulder. “Gonna get a drink. Need a refill?”

He exits the booth before Ginny answers. 

Harry knows he’s being a complete wally about all of this. They’re divorced, for Merlin’s sake—but there’s this unease in the pit of his stomach, a small flip that’s just on the edge of uncomfortable. 

He orders two shots of whisky. 

When he returns to the table, Ginny’s pint glass is empty, and she accepts the shot without complaint. She looks expectantly at Harry. “To what are we toasting?”

“Hell if I know. You got anything?”

Ginny laughs. “You are such a git. How about, to family?”

They clink their glasses, slam them on the table, and drain their respective drinks. Harry breathes a long painful sigh. Ginny squeezes her eyes shut, whistling a low moan.

“Ugh.” Ginny groans. “I now remember why I gave this up.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Ginny smiles ruefully. “It’s how we ended up with Lily.”

Harry looks down at the glass, swirls the dregs sitting at the bottom, long brown tendrils sticking to the sides. Lily was a welcomed surprise in their life, but the pregnancy was difficult, and coupled with Ginny’s postpartum anxiety, left them both unprepared. 

When he thinks back on it, with the clear vision of hindsight, Harry realises it was the beginning of the end. They settled on hiring assistance. Between Harry’s hectic work schedule and everything Ginny was going through, it helped a lot. Ginny started going to a mind Healer, and Harry continued his responsibilities as the new Head Auror.

There were long nights that turned into long days. When he came home, it was to a blurry commotion of dirty dishes, nappies, burps, and a sitting area filled with toys and books and laundry. Harry was completely out of his depth by that point, and it made him desperate for his next shift. He didn’t know how to be the partner Ginny needed, didn’t know how to provide her with reassurance when he could hardly rally it for himself. 

A new glass of neat whisky slides in front of him. “It looks like you need this,” Ginny says. “You were getting maudlin.”

“Some call it reminiscing.”

Ginny tilts her head. “Really? Is that what you call it?”

Harry considers the question. “It wasn’t always bad, was it?”

“No,” Ginny says. “But after Lily was born, it wasn’t good.”

“Ginny, I—”

“You’ve forgotten a lot about those times,” she says, staring into her glass. Her voice is calm, without malice. “You were so busy with work and all that came with being...with being you... I—I don’t think you really saw how badly off I was.” Then Ginny looks at Harry, her eyes soft and hopeful. “I want something more, something better. For both of us.”

Harry leans back into the booth. “Yeah. I want that, too.”

“I know,” Ginny says, reaching across the table to clasp Harry’s hand. “You’re my best friend, Harry. I don’t ever want you to think that I’m going to give up on you. I think for a long time you thought that my anger was about not believing in you. I've always believed in you. I still do.”

Harry squeezes Ginny’s hand. His throat constricts uncomfortably, his vocal cords strained with pressure. He takes a few controlled breaths. Only Ginny and her unwavering dedication can stabilise Harry this way.

“Yeah?” Harry manages. 

“Of course,” Ginny says without hesitation. “You’ve been worried, but I’m not going anywhere.”

The fear that Harry has been harbouring for these awful months—the abandonment of his family, the loss—that he needs to survive again, but this time alone—slowly evaporates. The ache still threatens to prod at Harry’s conscience, but above all, Harry wants to give her that solitary ground she needs, even if that means he’s doing it as her friend and not as her partner.

“I’m really sorry,” Harry says, his voice wavering. “I’m sorry that I never showed you how much I believed in you, too.”

“Harry,” Ginny says, voice soft and sad, “I never thought that.”

Against the dim light of the pub, Ginny's eyes shine. She looks beautiful right now: radiant and perfect. Her hair cascades over her shoulders in soft waves, and the simple turquoise blouse she’s wearing tonight looks new and is flattering against her pale, freckled skin. Harry’s heart swells with admiration and love. Ginny takes both his hands in hers, their bare ring fingers touching. He’s missed seeing her, hearing about her freelance work with The Prophet, and about the new Casablanca lilies he knows are blooming in Grimmauld Place’s garden. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a wanker,” Harry says.

“Hm,” Ginny hums, letting go of his hands and leaning back in her seat, a small smile playing across her face. “I believe the word you’re looking for is twatwaffle.”

“Twat...waffle?” 

“Or knob-tosser.” Ginny shrugs. “Twit-prick.”

“Knob-tosser,” Harry repeats slowly. “What the fuck?”

Ginny laughs, full and loud. “Jamie and Al were going at it the other day and I couldn’t stop them because it was too good.” She twirls her finger as she sings, “Mum of the year.”

And in that moment, Harry finds himself laughing with Ginny, exchanging various stories of witnessed sibling rivalry. He once again feels the prickly sensation of nostalgia. He suddenly recalls how much they used to joke around and just have fun. He’s missed spending time with her, relishing this comfortable, familiar space and existence. 

Harry can’t recall the last time they were alone with one another, this happy and without tension. 

“Yeah,” Ginny says solemnly, “you needed some time to brood.”

Harry snorts. “I was not brooding.” 

“You were so brooding,” Ginny counters, eyes sparkling in mirth. “I know you, Harry. I know you needed time to yourself to figure all of this out.” She waves a graceful hand in front of Harry in a circular flourish. “If I had come to you sooner, it would have been an exercise in futility.” 

“Fair point,” Harry agrees. He takes a deep sigh, lifting his glasses and scrubbing his face with his hand. “It’s just that sometimes—”

“Harry,” Ginny smiles. It’s infectious and sincere. It’s the smile that Harry fell in love with when they were just kids at Hogwarts, the smile that he will adore forever. “I have been with you for most of my life. I’m aware.” 

Harry believes her. If there’s anyone who knows, it’s Ginny. Everything will be fine, after all. 

“So,” Harry leans forward with piqued interest. “How did you and Mark meet?”

Ginny covers her face sheepishly with her hands, and giggles. When she emerges, her smile is bright, cheeks tinged with a blush. “Well, it started when we were out on a pub crawl for Katie’s Hen party, and he was sitting behind us eating fish and chips when suddenly my party hat fell onto his plate…”

** **-March 2018-** **

  
A month before Harry moves out of Grimmauld Place, Ginny discovers she's pregnant.

Two weeks later she miscarries. 

They don’t talk about it. The pregnancy was early and completely unplanned. Ginny explains to Harry that they most likely conceived during their weekend holiday to France. It was a last-ditch attempt on Harry’s part to show that he did care about her. He wanted to prove that those late nights away at Ministry events, or coming home long after the kids were read to and tucked away in bed, or leaving during family holidays weren’t for lack of love.

It was nice to be away, just the two of them. They were finally together and happy in a way Harry hadn't been since before they’d had Jamie—tangled in each other’s arms watching the sun set against the right bank of the Seine. He remembers the way she looked underneath him panting, eyes heavy-lidded, her face a painted picture of ecstasy, and gorgeous. 

They hardly left the hotel room. 

It seemed renewed, their old spark. Their passion had been diminished from years of being together, of knowing each other too well, their path together too lacking of fever and curiosity. Coupled with parenting three small children, life left little room for energy to do much else, let alone anything spontaneous. Harry hoped that when they returned to London after their passionate Parisian weekend, the stagnation between them would be abated. 

The day Ginny talks to Harry about losing the pregnancy, she’s sitting at the kitchen table, looking down into a mug of tea. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, wisps of red falling over her face. Harry stands nearby, leaning against the large kitchen counter, arms crossed against his chest. He isn’t as upset as he suspects he should be, but he wants to be here for Ginny. She looks contemplative, her eyes focused intently on her tea.

She doesn’t speak for a long time, and when she does, it’s a mere whisper. “Harry, I can’t do this anymore.”

Harry draws closer to the table and stands next to her, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Can’t do what?” 

“This.” She waves a hand around the room absently, eyes shimmering. “I can’t live like this anymore. I—I’m suffocating.” 

“I’m sorry that the…” Harry pauses, clenches his jaw and tries again. “I'm sorry it didn't work out.”

Ginny laughs ruefully. “Are you really?” 

“Of course I am.” 

“Harry,” Ginny begins, her small hands rubbing over her face before revealing tired, tired eyes. “I’m not. I'm not sorry at all.”

Harry takes a step closer, reaching out for her shoulder. Ginny jerks away. Her tone is sharp as she hisses, “Don’t.”

“So, what?” Harry asks defensively. “I can’t touch you now?” 

“You can’t see it, can you?” Ginny scowls, her cheeks flush with frustration. “This isn’t working out anymore. I can’t do this, Harry. I’ve been in your shadow for most of my life, and...and I’m tired. I’m so bloody tired of living like this, of having to be the dutiful wife, with the children and—”

“I never asked you to do any of that!” Harry retorts, carding a hand through his chin-length hair. “I’ve always encouraged you to do whatever you want!”

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” Ginny snaps, her hands spreading out across the surface of the old, knobbly oak kitchen table. “I started having babies when I was twenty-three fucking years old. I spent most of my adult life knee-high in nappies and potty training—”

“Stop,” Harry commands, his voice low.

“—while you were off saving the rest of the bloody world and continuing to be their saviour. You come home fuck all knows when—”

“Ginny, stop!”

“—and guess who put those babies to bed? Who made sure their bruises were tended to? Who wiped their bogey-covered faces?” She turns a pointed finger to her chest. “Me! Hell, you weren’t even here when Lily was born!” she cries, her voice wild with unchecked emotion.

Harry’s eyes widen in shock as he rears back from the verbal blow. He tightens his lips and darkens his stare at Ginny. 

She looks unsettled for a brief moment before gaining her composure and straightening her back. She’s ready for a fight.

“It wasn’t as if I planned to be stuck in Cardiff without the ability to Apparate back. I didn’t even get the memo until—” 

“Harry,” Ginny starts tightly. “I don’t want to hear about why you couldn’t be there. I’m so _sick_ of hearing about why. It doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“Then why did you bring it up?” Harry roars, his hands tightening into fists. The blood in his veins spark with electricity, the pulse so strong that the windows begin to rumble and the dishes in the sink start to clatter from emotions entwining with a burst of unchecked, wild magic.

Harry closes his eyes. He tries to imagine a placid lake against a mountain in his mind. The water so calm that it reflects the sky like a mirror. The rattling stops.

When he opens his eyes, Ginny is staring at him in silent disbelief. He finds his voice, steady but dripping with ire. “You’re not supposed to keep a tally of all my fuck-ups. That’s not how this works.”

Ginny rises from her chair so quickly it wobbles precariously before falling to the floor. She looks wild—disbelief shifting to one of cold, hard anger. “I have done nothing but support every decision you have ever made in this marriage, right down to the names of our children! Do not stand here and attempt to lecture me about—” Ginny shakes her head, a bitter laugh echoing in the room. “You know what? I’m not doing this anymore. We’ve had this conversation countless times and guess what? It always ends the same. Every time you get defensive, you don’t listen to me.”

“I hear you just fine,” Harry grumbles, glancing out the window of the kitchen. The sky is feathered with streaks of orange and purple, and he focuses on the calming scenery. He takes three deep breaths. “I just don’t know what you want from me.”

Ginny spreads her arms and shrugs, her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I want you to move out.”

The bubbling anger rises in Harry’s chest. “You always do this...always jump to the extremes.” 

“No, Harry,” Ginny says, her hands out like two balanced scales. “This isn't dramatics. We aren't in love anymore and haven't been for a long time.”

“That—that's—” Harry sputters, “that's _bollocks_.”

Ginny's eyes fill with tears, spilling over onto her cheeks, her shoulders trembling with the force of her silent sobs. She looks defeated as their gazes meet, and it breaks something inside of Harry. “Are you telling me that you want to continue this? Continue living like this? That you're happy? Because I'm telling you right now that this,” she spins a finger around, “this is killing me.”

Harry crosses the room to her. He thinks he should do something to prove he wants this because this is his one chance to save their marriage, right here, right now. He should tell her he will change, make promises, show he can be the man she needs and deserves. 

But he stops, frozen in place. He can’t tell Ginny any of those things, Harry knows they fall short of encompassing the depth of what she needs to hear. He can't win here, and as he watches Ginny's tear-filled eyes plead for him to say something, anything, to make sense of what's happening between then, he knows that none of those promises will save what is already broken between them. Trying to coax her into slapping a plaster over their wounded marriage will not be a long-term solution. He has to let go.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, his throat dry. He swallows several times before he speaks again. “I'll...I'll leave tonight.”

Ginny walks up to him and wraps her arms around his waist. He brushes her forehead with a kiss before resting his chin on top of her head and she clutches Harry’s waist harder, her entire body shaking as he envelops her in a tight embrace. There’s a trembling intake of breath and a small sob escapes Ginny’s lips. Harry wishes he had the capacity to express his emotions like Ginny, but his senses have become overwhelmed when faced with such intensity—everything freezes inside.

Harry wishes he was better than this.

“I really wanted us to work,” Ginny says, her voice shattered.

Harry closes his eyes, a single tear falling down his cheek. He reaches up, surprised at the dampness against his warm skin. 

“Me too,” he whispers. “Me too.”

** **-April 2018-** **

Astoria is tending to her flower garden outside, hair sun-kissed and cheeks rosy, a basket settled on her arm filled with fresh blooms. Her lilac peasant skirt flutters around her ankles when the wind from the coast picks up, daisy white shawl falling off one shoulder as she turns her face to the sky, closing her eyes to soak up the heat.

Draco leans against the doorframe, watching Astoria carefully clip a rose, study it with an adoring smile and set it gently in her basket. His body fills with a comfortable warmth that spreads to his toes, the adoration and affection so overwhelming his head spins. She looks so perfect, so beautiful like this—standing with her own bit of earth, soaking in every moment. 

In these tender moments, Draco knows he’s lucky that Astoria chose him, that she believed in him when no one else would. That despite what her family, his family, and the wizarding world thought, she saw something great, someone capable of perseverance, someone who deserved love. 

Draco walks into the garden, the familiar crunch of gravel under his shoes. The sun is warm against his back, but the chill of the wind seeps through his jumper and he shivers. Astoria turns when he edges closer, a smile spilling across her face. 

“Have you been watching me?” she teases.

“Always,” Draco says, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her flush against him. “How are you doing?” he murmurs into her ocean-scented hair.

“Fine,” Astoria answers too quickly. Draco pulls back and raises an eyebrow. Astoria’s eyes shift. “I’m just a little tired.”

“Come inside,” Draco encourages, releasing his hold when he leans in to kiss her cheek. “You don’t want to overdo it.” She nods.

Once inside, Astoria busies herself with tea. Draco walks to the living room, stands at the bay window, and stares out onto the sea. Whitecaps sprinkle the dark ocean, like small snowflakes on top of the water. He sees a random seagull dive deep into the angry waves with clean precision. It emerges empty-handed. 

“Oh!” Astoria calls from the kitchen, “I forgot to tell you that Scorpius sent us an owl. He says he’s doing really well and was wondering if—” 

There’s a sudden crash, the shattering of glass piercing the quiet, and Draco runs. “Astoria!” he calls out, and when he sees her lying on the floor on her side, flowers messily fanned around her with shards of glass shining like tiny diamonds against the garish sunlight, he gasps.

Draco crouches next to her, ignoring the glass crunching underneath him. He turns her over and shakes her aggressively, his voice panicked and scared when he says, “Darling? Sweetheart, can you hear me?” 

Astoria’s eyes are rolled back, body limp. Draco brushes her hair back with shaky hands. He leans over to hear a shallow wheeze coming between her lips. He doesn’t think—he can’t, not when Astoria’s lips are slowly turning blue, each breath she takes now a struggle. He pulls her hard against his chest.

He Apparates them to St Mungo’s.  


\--

The hospital is too white, too clean, and too static, but Draco refuses to leave. It’s been three days since Astoria was admitted and he hasn’t slept, save a few dreamless hours. He knows he looks like hell, knows he probably needs a decent meal that isn’t coffee or tea, but he can’t risk leaving her. When the Mediwitches suggest that Draco go home to rest, all it takes is a cold glare before they rush away for an immediate retreat.

The diagnostic tests are inconclusive and Draco doesn’t want answers, he wants solutions. Astoria’s condition requires solutions, her life depends on them. Draco doesn’t know how he would be able to navigate life without her. Their whole existence is because of her faith in him, in their family, in their love. She helped Draco to believe in the change he wanted for himself, and he doesn’t know if he can do it alone if she, if she—

The squeak of the door interrupts Draco’s thoughts. He looks up, startled, the tight ball of grief that was building in his chest stagnant for now. “Granger,” he says cautiously.

“Healer Granger-Weasley, actually, but I’d prefer it if you called me Hermione. Can I call you Draco?” Granger says, now fully entering the room and standing at the foot of Astoria’s bed.

Draco turns back to Astoria, carefully clasping her hand. 

“Okay.”

The last time Draco saw Granger—Hermione—was at Platform 9¾ when Scorpius was off to Hogwarts for his school year.

He didn’t pay much attention to her and her family at the time, focused on the swell in his heart when he saw how happy his son looked boarding the train with Albus Potter. 

The boys hadn’t seen each other all summer but kept a lengthy correspondence with owls and texts on their latest iPhones, a new addition into the Malfoy home upon Astoria’s suggestion. _It’s all the rage with the kids now, Draco, just let him have this one little joy_, Astoria had urged. Draco wanted Scorpius to experience all the joys and infinite choices he never had. 

He wanted Scorpius to be different. He wanted Scorpius to be accepting. Draco wanted that for himself, too.

The boys had chattered excitedly as they boarded the train, turning to wave to their parents one last time. Draco followed Albus’s focus, watched as Potter and Ginevra waved enthusiastically to him, desperately looking at other cars for the rest of their lot.

And Potter— _Merlin_, Potter looked good, standing there in well-fitted jeans and a t-shirt, as if he had all the time in the world. His hair was overgrown, brushing close to his chin with that big and infectious smile Draco’s only seen from a distance or in the papers. Draco couldn't ignore the flip in his stomach or the low thrum in his veins.

He saw when Potter reached for his wife’s hand, and how she evaded the touch, clasping them in front of her instead, Potter’s smile dissolving immediately. It was an incredibly private moment to witness, but with the cacophony of the new school year surrounding them, parents were more focused on the send off, so it appeared to have gone undetected.

Draco’s mind had whirled. Potter’s expression remained still, impassive. Draco wanted to ask what Potter was thinking. He desired to brush fingers over that scar on his forehead just to see it twitch. His mind further betrayed him when he considered how he could make the smile return to Potter’s face.

When Astoria clasped Draco’s hand, the unrestrained imaginations of Draco’s mind came to an immediate halt. She’d seen the way Draco looked, leaving him so exposed in that moment, so utterly open and raw. Caught. 

“Draco?” Hermione’s voice cuts through his thoughts. He’s brought back to the hospital room, the smell of antiseptic and the whirls of charms and newly introduced Muggle medical equipment jarring to his nerves. “I understand that given our history, this may appear as a conflict of interest. I also acknowledge that you are in an extremely difficult position, however, I’ve been assigned to your case because I am leading a team of Healers who are researching blood-borne conditions—”

“Is she going to wake up?” Draco asks quietly, his eyes focused on Astoria’s sleeping state. Her face looks calm and perfect, hair splayed out around her like a halo. She reminds Draco of one of the creatures she read about in her Muggle books._ Angels_, he remembers. 

“She is currently in a medically induced coma,” Hermione explains, her voice even and professional. “We believe that given her condition—”

“_Curse_,” Draco corrects, throat tightening as his eyes roam over Astoria’s elegant soft brow, her heart-shaped face, and her delicate chin. “It’s not a condition, it’s a curse. It’s been in the family for nearly ten generations.”

“While the origination of the illness is a curse, the ailment itself is medically considered a condition which—”

Draco looks up and scowls. “If you say you’re going to treat my wife and try to save her, you have to look at this for what it is,” he spits. “She didn’t do this to herself. It's a punishment.”

Hermione carefully sits down in the chair located in the corner of the room, crossing her legs elegantly. She folds her hands in her lap and fixes Draco with a strong, unwavering gaze. “Have you ever heard of autoimmune diseases?” 

When Draco responds with a slow shake of his head, Hermione continues. “In the Muggle medical community there are far greater scientific advancements about the human body than we have in our wizarding world. Since the Revitalisation, I’ve been working with a team of Healers and Muggleborn medical researchers in an attempt to bridge the gaps that have existed between the magical and non-magical in the medical field to provide answers to more complex cases. Hereditary curses are our primary focus. Without getting into too much detail, an autoimmune disease is when the body attacks itself, resulting in irreparable damage.” 

“What does this have to do with Astoria?” Draco asks, shaking his head. “Are you saying that…this curse is actually her own body attacking itself?”

“While the research is new, we have found that there are similarities with the hereditary curses to that of Muggle autoimmune diseases, both stemming from genetic links. However, we must take into account the mundane versus the magical concerning this disease that is still very much rooted in—” Hermione stops, her shoulders straightening as her impassive expression slips from her face. “I’m...I’m sorry. I can get a bit carried away with all of the minutiae. It’s all rather fascinating, and as I said before, we are making every effort in bridging the gap in research and practice, but every patient’s case is specific to them.” 

“You’re saying due to the curse being magical, the effects on Astoria are far greater and more nefarious than if she was inflicted with a Muggle blood-borne disease,” Draco finishes. 

Hermione raises an impressive eyebrow. “Precisely.” 

Draco turns back to Astoria and brushes a knuckle against her cheek. “Which means that finding a treatment to suppress the symptomology is extremely difficult given how rapidly she’s been—” 

“Actually,” Hermione interrupts, the timbre in her voice rising with uncontrolled excitement. “Very recently we have been working on some advancements in potions that may assist in slowing the rapid degradation within the human body that happens with this kind of blood disorder and curse,” she says with pride before pausing for a beat. “That’s why I am here today.”

Draco quickly pulls his gaze from Astoria’s sleeping face to Hermione’s soft smiling one. “Why didn’t you start the conversation with this?” he demands.

“That was the intention of this visit, but we got sidetracked about the nomenclature of your wife’s condition,” Hermione explains with a wave of her hand towards Astoria. “Shall we continue arguing over semantics or would you like me to go over the side effects and draw up the proper paperwork?”

When Astoria awakens that evening, Draco is asleep in a large transfigured chair, his arm stretched awkwardly to hold her hand. He stirs when she leans up to brush back the fringe that has fallen over his forehead, trace his cheek, skimming over several days of stubble. 

“How are you?” Draco asks, voice rough with sleep as he stretches out all of his limbs, wincing slightly as the tendons in his neck protest his sudden movement. 

“I should ask the same of you,” Astoria muses, her voice equally rough. “That chair can’t have been comfortable.” Her fingers continue to brush through Draco’s hair. 

Draco leans into the touch for a moment. He sighs and reaches up to wrap his hand around her wrist, pulling it down before threading his fingers with hers. 

“I was so worried,” he whispers, kissing her palm gently. “I thought I might have—”

“Now, now,” Astoria murmurs her eyes smiling and bright. “It’s going to take a lot more than a fainting episode to get rid of me.”

**  
**-August 2019-**  
**

Astoria adores summer.

She loves walking along the coast near their cottage, water rushing over her bare feet as she studies the sunrise. When Scorpius was a baby, she would take him down during high tide in the evening and rock him to the beat of the waves, lulling him to sleep. Draco watched as she danced in the rocky sand, her damp dress billowing around her legs. 

She’d return, hair wind-blown, wild eyes reflecting the shimmer of the sea, her happiness as wide as the tide. It wrapped around Draco in a comfort he had never experienced before. He found love and protection with Astoria, and it finally made him whole. He witnessed in those moments that Astoria contained nothing but pure, unadulterated beauty.

Against the backdrop of the beach, with its pebbled sand and pure blue waters, she looked so happy and fulfilled. Draco longs for that happiness now, stuck in the four plain white walls of a hospital room. He yearns for them and the state of their happiness as he watches Astoria sleep, so frail and pale and far removed from her lovely self. Her lips are chapped, hair splayed in dark thin tendrils against the pillow. In the last week, she's become completely bedridden, her body too weak to walk.

Draco abhors this blood curse, hates the way it attacks innocent bystanders indiscriminately for the sake of a pedigree that has long paid for its actions. He hates that he took those precious years at the start of their relationship for granted, letting his heart believe such happiness could continue forever.

“I'm sorry, Draco,” Hermione whispered tightly during the latest house call. “But it's time to make the proper arrangements.”

Draco hadn’t wanted Astoria to die in some fucking hospital wing in St Mungo's—scratchy sheets, constant intrusions, and sad, sad eyes. He wants her here, against the large windows of their beautiful home, this sacred haven they made together, with its corners holding treasurable memories, like the room Scorpius was born in. They chose this home to be surrounded by nothing but nature and the sea and new beginnings. They chose to be alone with no interruptions. They chose freedom.

He wants her here, in their pale bedroom, accompanied by the scent of salt, and the freshly picked bunch of fresh lavender that Astoria always keeps on their bedside table. 

She built this for them. She deserves it.

They knew this day would come, but it doesn’t stop the fissure of pain that aches inside of Draco, the growing panic that at any moment it will all just stop. His greatest fear is that he will leave Astoria’s side for a breath of a moment and she will be gone. Draco has taken to sleeping in the wingback chair next to the bed some nights, just so he can watch her sleep, and even then, it’s fitful. 

Luckily they have Elisabeth. When they first moved into the hamlet seaside Elisabeth was one of the first to arrive on their doorstep to greet them to the village. The older pureblood witch had lived in the village for nearly three decades, where her Muggleborn husband was born. He had passed away only a couple years before meeting Draco and Astoria, and immediately took a liking to them. Astoria became especially close to Elisabeth, trusting in her wisdom and advice. 

Recently, as Astoria’s health started to decline, their friend magnanimously volunteered to take over the household duties for the family. She checks that Draco and Scorpius eat, that they get out into the fresh air, and offers to make them tea. And in the dead of the night, when Draco wakes in his chair in a panic, fear rushing over him like a tsunami, he finds Scorpius in a chair opposite him, fast asleep. 

Even their son doesn’t want to miss saying goodbye.

How will Draco move on from this? How will he ever continue without her? She is the first person to show him true, unconditional love, the first person to see Draco for all that he ever wanted to be—not what his name represents, not his Dark Mark, not his failures. She's given him their only child, insisted on it, because she never wants him to live his life alone. 

Astoria stirs. Draco carefully reaches for her hand. She smiles, eyes closed, and takes in a shaky breath. 

“Good morning, my love,” Draco greets gently, reaching for the cup of water on the bedside table. “Did you sleep well?”

Astoria nods, her eyes fluttering open. She slowly sits up and leans forward to take a careful sip from the glass, her hand cupping over Draco’s as the glass tilts against her lips. When she squeezes Draco hand, he pulls the glass away and sets it on their nightstand. “Where's—” she starts, voice hoarse.

“He's with Elisabeth,” Draco interrupts soothingly. “She suggested taking him shopping for the new school year. I didn't want him to worry.”

Astoria squeezes his hand, her smile soft and warm before she leans back against her pillows. 

She looks so beatific right now—wonderful and perfect. Draco wants to take in this moment, this one moment, because he knows. He knows it's never going to happen again and it hurts, hurts fucking everywhere, down every muscle, down in his bones.

“I love you so much,” Draco whispers. He wishes he could bring her out to her garden one last time, just to see the summer blooms. Astoria loved walking around her garden, tending to the flowers and plants, raising her head to the sun and closing her eyes. She never wasted a borrowed moment, each one sacred and beloved.

“Oh, Draco,” Astoria whispers, her smile rueful. “You have been so wonderful. So gracious. How did I ever convince you to look at me?”

Draco rears back but squeezes her hand harder. “What?” he gasps. “What are you—”

Astoria pulls her hand loose to brush the fringe off Draco’s forehead. “I’d fancied you since the first time we met. You didn’t even know I existed at Hogwarts. Everyone in my year thought I was crazy, but I saw you—I saw how hard you worked, how badly you wanted to do right. I saw—” She stops, coughs roughly and Draco reaches for the glass of water again. Astoria shoos the glass away and gives a look that makes his stomach clench.

“I saw—I saw the way you looked at him,” she murmurs. “How much you wanted. I knew, my darling, what I was up against, I knew. But, I’d rather have had a chance and be second choice, than no chance at all.”

Draco’s heart is beating so fast, so hard, so loud. There is a rushing tide in his ears, a roar screaming as he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes for a few brief moments before he opens them and speaks. 

“I love _you_. You mean everything to me, you’re the only...the only one I...” Draco stops, his vision blurring. He looks away. He feels ripped apart, exposed, raw. 

“Sweetheart, please look at me.” 

Draco blinks back the sting in his eyes and glances up. The smile is still on Astoria’s face, her limp hair fallen over her shoulders in soft curls. He thinks he sees a small tinge of pink filling her cheeks. A blush of life. The first he’s seen in days. 

“I have lived such a wonderful life. You have given me so much. Please do not fret, my love.” Her hand reaches out for Draco’s, clasping it weakly in hers. “I do not regret anything.”

“You are my everything,” Draco whispers, his voice shaking and raw. “No matter what I’ve wanted...Please know that I’ve always loved you.”

Astoria nods. “I know.”

Draco leans forward, setting his forehead on her stomach. Astoria runs her fingers through his hair before resting her hand on the nape of his neck. The tears start spilling over, his shoulders shake with his quiet sobs, and he can’t stop. He can’t and he won’t. He climbs into the bed beside her, wraps his arms around her, their bodies melting into one, a tangle of arms and limbs. 

This pain is too unbearable, too vast, too deep, and Draco realises it will never end. He kisses her temple, whispers confessions to her he's longed to say, and they fall asleep like this—together and whole.

Astoria Malfoy passes away the next day. 

The day after, _The Daily Prophet_ announces the dissolution of Harry Potter’s marriage.


	3. Chapter 3

** **-August 2019-** **

  


Diagon Alley is filled with a thick roar of families rushing about doing last-minute school preparations. In these moments, it's easier for Harry to be with his family, the distractions too overwhelming for anyone to notice his presence. He loves this short-lived moment of anonymity.

It also helps that the news of his divorce isn’t out yet. 

The popularity comes in waves, contingent on activities in Harry’s life, and how much Neville gets involved with the press. Before the children were born, Harry and Ginny could almost navigate the downtown area with little interruption. But as Harry advanced in his career and the children were born, the attention increased. Harry loves spending time with his family, loves watching his kids explore shop to shop. He’d sooner deal with the press and paps than give up on moments like this. 

As in the past, Ginny and Harry decide on a divide-and-conquer approach to the school shopping. Lily is starting her first year at Hogwarts, and she asks Harry to accompany her to gather supplies. 

“Dad, which house do you think the Hat will sort me into?” Lily asks as Harry walks with her down the aisles of Flourish and Blotts. She reaches out to the wooden shelves, nimble fingers brushing across the spines of books as she passes. 

“What do you think you’ll be in?” Harry asks, grinning. He knows deep down that his fierce red-headed daughter will be a Gryffindor, but he doesn’t want to influence her opinion. 

Lily’s shrug is nonchalant, stopping in front of a book, picking it off the shelf. She double checks her list. “Jamie says Ravenclaw, but I know he’s doing that to get on my nerves like he did with Albus.”

A swell of affection rises in Harry’s chest. The summer included small family trips and many more pleasant visits between the two households. Harry took leave from work so he could take the children to the seaside for a few days. Everyone gorged themselves on 99s, and stayed up way past their bedtimes. It was a holiday he had always wanted to do with them, but for which he’d never been able to take the time off.

“He’s such a git,” Lily says as an afterthought when she’s gathered her last book. “I just ignore him and it makes him even more angry,” she looks over her shoulder with a cheeky grin. “It’s brill.”

Harry tilts his head back and laughs, earning a smug, satisfied smile from his daughter. He knows he shouldn’t indulge this behaviour, but as his youngest, Lily’s always had a way into his heart. With her rule-bending, she reminds him so much of himself as a child. Her fearless attitude and free spirit will definitely land her in Gryffindor. 

They pay for the books and make their way down Diagon Alley to meet up with Ginny and the boys at Sugarplums Sweets, a yearly tradition of theirs. Albus and James have already gathered their favourite treats, standing outside of the shop amongst other patrons. 

“How did it go?” Ginny asks excitedly to Lily.

“Mum, they're books. It went fine,” Lily says, her voice bored. After a beat, her face lights up. “Can I get that pastry that has all the sugar on top of it?”

Ginny smiles and nods. “Yes, you can.”

Lily fist pumps and walks inside, Ginny trailing after her. Harry has been looking forward to today, spending time with the whole family in wizarding public for the first time in months. The news of the divorce will hit the papers soon enough, and having this moment where they can all coexist as a family is an incredible gift to Harry. He makes a mental note to thank Neville. 

An owl circles above the crowd and lands on a perch near the shop, reaching out to Albus, an expectant expression in its stance. Albus furrows his eyebrows in confusion, taking the letter with caution from the owl and turns it over. A dark emerald waxed seal adorns the center.

“Odd,” Albus murmurs to himself, popping the pastry into his mouth as he breaks the seal of the letter. Harry watches Albus’s eyes rove over the parchment as he reads, his mouth falling open, the pastry falling to the ground. 

“No,” Albus gasps, his eyes wide and frantic. His hands squeeze into fists, the letter crumpling, and Harry walks to him as Albus panics, his breathing sharp staccato chokes. Harry moves closer. 

“What happened?” Harry asks, placing his hands on Albus’s shoulders, giving them a small reassuring squeeze. “Albus, look at me—Who sent you that?” 

“Dad,” Albus chokes, his eyes remaining on the crumpled parchment in his fist. “She’s gone.”

Ginny appears next to them. “What’s happened?” she demands, her voice sharp with fear. Harry can hear James talking to Lily, their voices softening as James pulls her away, apparently sensing the building tension. 

“He got an owl,” Harry replies in an even tone, his eyes steady on Albus. Years of being an Auror have taught Harry how to handle high-panic situations: calm voice, reassuring touch if it’s accepted, and never losing visual. “Albus, what did it say?” 

Albus looks at the curled wad in his hand. Harry can see he’s shaking, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. Harry gives his shoulders another gentle squeeze.

“She’s dead,” he whispers. He lifts his head up to Harry, his eyes wide and scared. 

Oh fuck. Scorpius had been keeping in touch with Albus throughout the summer during his mother’s palliative care. Ginny had told Harry about it on the phone a week ago, her voice strained with emotion. 

“His mum died.” Tears shimmer in the corners of Albus’s eyes as he bites his lip to stop them from trembling. “Oh my god. She...she's gone.”

Harry's heart drops at the sight of Albus’s face. It's pinched, as if he's in physical pain, and his body begins to shake. Harry can't stop himself when he pulls Albus to his chest. Albus keeps shaking against Harry’s embrace, the small choke of a sob escaping from his throat, and it doesn't matter that it’s in the middle of a sunny summer day in Diagon Alley, surrounded by onlookers. Maybe it’ll end up in the papers before he can stop it. Maybe it won’t.

In this moment, Harry doesn’t care. At all.  


** **-September 2019-** **

  


After Albus receives the owl from Scorpius, the family returns to Grimmauld Place.

Harry and Ginny sit in the living room in silence, gathering their thoughts as Albus disappears into his room without a word. Later, in the dim light of the evening, Albus walks over to Harry, with sad eyes and nervous hands and whispers, “Dad, can I ask a favour?” 

Harry knows immediately what he is going to ask, and he doesn’t say no.

**\--**

The day before the funeral, Albus Floos home from Hogwarts and spends most of his time in his room, dulcet notes of instrumental music weeping through his door. Albus doesn’t say much, his appetite scarce, and sleep evading him. Ginny tells Harry this over the phone, her voice low and strained, riddled with grief and worry for their son. 

On a chilly September afternoon, Harry and Albus attend Astoria Malfoy’s funeral. 

Harry picks Albus up at Grimmauld Place and sees the red-rimmed eyes, the dark circles underneath, the tightness around his trembling mouth. His skin looks pale, his hair a wilder mess than usual. They don’t speak the whole walk to the Apparation point, where they use the coordinates Scorpius provided in his last owl to Albus. 

Harry doesn’t know what to think when they walk towards a seaside hamlet at the far end of a small Muggle fishing village in Cornwall. He figured Malfoy would still live at Malfoy Manor, or somewhere as large and overbearing. Harry thought there would be a crowd of pureblood relatives adorned in expensive shiny black robes. He thought it would be cold, and lonely, and static.

But when he sees Malfoy’s home, a rough-hewn stone facade smoothed from the ocean’s erosion, an old cobblestone path, lush flowers and plants surrounding the perimeter undulating against the cool breeze of the sea, it's warm and welcoming. Alive. 

Harry also finds a gathering of people he assumes are from the village; townsfolk to pay their respects with flowers, food, and various gifts. Everyone dresses in deep colours of blue, their faces sombre. Harry and Albus follow the small crowd to a large garden in the back. Twinkling fairy lights cascade down from a high pole to one side of the roof. A small gazebo sits farther away, candles and flowers surrounding a table decorated with photos and other memorial items. 

Harry scans the crowd. He finds Scorpius slumped against the brick of the house, hands shoved into the front pockets of his dress trousers. His face is pale, dark circular bags under his eyes. Albus discovers his friend soon after Harry and rushes over. Scorpius’s eyes widen in surprise, a genuine smile spreading over his face as they hug. 

Harry will say he’s never given much thought to Albus’s friendship with Scorpius. Ginny, however, would say the exact opposite. Harry knew that Albus regarded him as his best friend— his only friend at Hogwarts—and Harry tried to not let Scorpius being Malfoy’s child affect his opinion, but it did. It burned inside of him, a flame that spread and consumed. 

Ginny would tell him he was being paranoid. That he was intrusive. That he wasn’t allowing Albus to figure out the value and merit of his friendships on his own, like a teenager should. She would say that Harry was trying to manipulate the situation because of his obsession with Malfoy, which he would deny with vehemence. 

Harry recalls the conversation he tried to have with Ginny over his concerns about Albus’s friendship causing him potential hurt. Ginny’s response had been unbearably ferocious. 

“Harry, you cannot allow your past to affect what happens to our children,” she said.

“This isn’t about the past,” Harry argued. “This is about making sure that our son is safe from influence.”

Ginny’s lips drew into a thin line. “I don't get it. You spoke at his trial. You defended him. Why is this a problem?”

Harry clenched his jaw, hard.

“This fixation you have with Draco Malfoy has to stop. You will not project whatever this is—” Ginny waved her hand in front of Harry, “onto our son. I will not stand for it. Scorpius has been good for Al. That boy has committed no crimes and has done nothing but help Albus when he was scared and worried about levelling up to _your_ expectations.”

“I haven’t—”

“Don’t,” Ginny said, her voice hard. “He's Albus’s best friend. Scorpius is all he has. You will not take that away from him.”

Now, as Harry sees them together, sees the ease and comfort they share with one another, he knows Ginny is right. He’s ashamed for thinking Scorpius should carry the responsibility of a past that doesn’t belong to him just because of his family name. Harry watches how Albus rests a gentle hand on Scorpius’s elbow, how Scorpius laughs when Albus makes a joke, and Harry is reminded of the love that enveloped him from Ron and Hermione. Albus deserves every ounce of that kind of love and respect. 

Harry hasn’t spoken a word to Malfoy in years outside of perfunctory salutations when their sons would meet up to see each other. It seems awkward to be invited to his home, in this humble village, settled against the beautiful beach shore, the ripe scent of salt assaulting Harry's senses. 

Harry reminds himself that he’s not here for anyone but Albus. Albus asked Harry to come. So, when the villagers gather around, passing out candles and giving their eulogies for Astoria Greengrass Malfoy, Harry respectfully listens. He stands in the back of the crowd, trying to conceal himself from Malfoy. He doesn’t want his presence to attract attention away from Astoria. Albus stands close by, lips drawn together, eyes focused. 

Then Malfoy comes to the front with Scorpius, and Harry winces. Malfoy looks different than the last time he saw him, which was a brief glance on the 9¾ platform last school year. Malfoy’s hair is a wind-blown mess, skin an alarming shade of pale—he looks almost translucent. His eyes have deep bruises under them, and despite the tailored bright blue button down and dove grey trousers, it’s evident that Malfoy has lost weight, the shirt verging on too big for his already svelte frame. As the townspeople gather to offer condolences, Malfoy’s eyes rove over to the ocean with a numbed stare, lips barely moving as he responds his thanks.

Jesus, he looks like absolute hell.

Harry has never seen Malfoy like this—not in sixth year when he found him crying in the bathroom, not after Harry’s reckless curse had Malfoy splayed and sputtering with blood, not when the fear of the Fiendfyre coursed through both of them, Malfoy’s sweaty grip against Harry’s hips, trembling and hot to the touch. Not even at the trials, where Malfoy appeared controlled, his spine ramrod straight, face sharp and poised. 

Right now Malfoy looks ripped wide open, bare and so vulnerable. Everything about it frightens Harry. The fragility exposed in Malfoy’s naked expression is alive and broken. It’s as if he’s trembling on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the wind to lift him up and nudge him over its edge. 

Harry’s chest twists and he has to look away. 

Harry has attended too many funerals in his life to count, and has been robbed of the ability to properly mourn at least as many times. With his early losses, he did not have the permission he sorely craved to mourn; instead, he had to push his discomfort, pain, and sorrow into the pit of his stomach until those cemented feelings were covered and hidden away. He didn’t have time to cry, to experience sadness, to _feel_—there was a war, there was Auror training, there was Ginny, there was Teddy, his kids, his marriage, becoming Head of the DMLE, the public—

Harry turns to walk away, to retreat from the crowd. His chest twists cold and tight, and it's hard to move; he feels like he's sinking in quicksand. This was an absolute mistake, coming here, witnessing so much grief openly displayed by a man who Harry believed also locked away his emotions. Looking at Malfoy, Harry is reminded of what he lost in favour of self-preservation.

Albus catches Harry’s hand, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Dad, where are you going?” he whispers. His eyes look wide and scared, and fuck, Harry can’t leave. He came here for Albus. He came because Albus asked, because Albus needs him.

“Sorry,” Harry whispers back, squeezing Albus’s hand in reassurance. Albus holds the grip for a few lingering moments, and tentatively lets go. 

Harry doesn’t hear the rest of the ceremony, the crashing sea loud in his ears. 

**\--**

The crowd disbands. 

Albus goes towards Scorpius with urgency and they disappear inside the house. An older woman is talking to Malfoy, a long brown plait flowing down her back, her peasant skirt moving with the ocean’s winds. He watches as she places her hands on Malfoy’s shoulders, and Malfoy gives a wan smile and nods. 

It seems like an invasion, all of it. Standing on this random seaside property, watching Muggles gathering around to support Malfoy’s deceased wife. Harry doesn’t know much about Astoria, can’t remember her from Hogwarts, and can’t even bring himself to recall if they ever exchanged conversation. But now the love for her is everywhere, illuminated in Malfoy’s grief, the intimate insight of how broken he is, and it makes Harry itch with discomfort, to have seen this intimate glimpse. 

Harry goes to find Albus. He searches around the garden, the cobblestone path winding through bushes of wildflowers and bluebells. A large arbour covered in ivy sits at the end of the path, two chairs in front of it overlooking the sea. A small handbasket sits against the leg of one. 

This domestic aesthetic isn’t something Harry would expect when roaming a Malfoy property. The chairs face the horizon and it’s the perfect position to watch the sun rise or set. Awash with both unease and wonder, Harry turns and goes inside the house.

Bright colours of whites, aquamarine, and blue cover the walls of Malfoy’s sitting room. The room bursts with potted plants and vases of flowers, the floral scent sweet and consuming as he stands near the bay window. He’s immediately intrigued by the pictures decorating the mantel above the fireplace; they’re both magical and Muggle. 

Harry leans in to explore the pictures. His gaze immediately fixes on a coloured frame of grey and blue. Astoria holds a baby Scorpius, the backdrop a moss-covered rocky cliff, and her hair ripples behind her in the wind. Her expression is tranquil as she fixes an adoring gaze on baby Scorpius, carefully bundled in her arms. When she looks up at the camera, there’s a smile on her face, full of affection and adoration. 

In a Muggle photograph, a young and smiling Malfoy and Astoria fill the frame. Harry’s never seen Malfoy like this: Muggle clothes, black jeans as tight as his ribbed vest with a white unbuttoned cuffed short-sleeve shirt beaming in the sunlight. Astoria is wearing a white crop top and jeans, her boots stretching up to her knees. They’re both holding hands, leaning against what appears to be a Muggle car, smiling at each other. 

They look desperately in love.

The photo appears to have been after the trials. Malfoy’s hair shines so brilliant it’s almost white against Astoria’s deep brown, and Harry can tell that Malfoy’s lost in the sight of her. Her face is open, caught mid-laugh, her warm eyes sparkling. Harry picks up the photo for a closer look. He wonders what this Malfoy was like, young and happy with his Muggle clothing, driving down motorways, getting lost in the thrill of the unknown with a woman who apparently wanted the same adventure.

Suddenly, there’s muffled and melodic music filtering into the living room, disrupting Harry’s thoughts. He takes a deep breath, setting the picture back on the mantel before following the bright, warm tones of music. He climbs the staircase until he finds a door cracked open, an amber glow of light flickering on the wooden floor. 

Scorpius and Albus are murmuring in quiet voices, their words mixing with the music. It’s instrumental but modern—delicate and pretty. Harry raps his knuckles gently on the door before pushing it open.

“Explosions In The Sky?” he asks with a grin, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossing. 

Albus is sitting in a chair next to Scorpius’s bed, his legs resting on the mattress. Scorpius has changed, now wearing a hoodie and jeans, his back pressed against the frame of his bed, his arms wrapped around his legs drawn up to his chest. Harry can see the tall black speaker the music is emanating from, tucked in the corner between his wall and drawer chest.

“Yeah.” Albus smiles before turning to face Scorpius with a shy look. “Dad told me about them.”

“Do you like it?” Harry asks.

“Yes,” Scorpius says softly. “It’s calming.” 

Scorpius looks so frayed and worn around the edges. It makes Harry’s heart ache. The urge to banish the emptiness Harry knows this boy is feeling overcomes him. Children shouldn’t have to understand death at this age, shouldn’t have that responsibility thrust upon them. Scorpius shouldn’t have to grow up without his mother, creating memories that she will never be a part of. Harry knows how what it feels like to carry that weight forever. He wants to explain to Scorpius that the world isn’t without compassion, that the pain he’s feeling right now, at the very least, will ease.

“Is it alright if I stay?” Albus asks, pulling Harry out of his thoughts. “Just for the night.”

“Of course,” Harry replies. He pauses. “Will...your father be okay with that?”

Scorpius shrugs and sighs, turning his gaze towards the window. “Probably. He’s been…” 

“It’s okay,” Harry says. “I can talk to him.” 

“Thanks, Dad,” Albus says, his eyes so sincere. 

Harry was so, so wrong about all of this. The dawning, shocking clarity he experiences in Scorpius’s small bedroom gives him goosebumps. Albus needs Scorpius. 

As he walks outside, Harry understands that Scorpius needs Albus too.

  
**  
***.*.*.***  
**

It’s done. She’s gone. 

Draco stares into the calm waters beyond the waves as they stretch into a fuzzy line on the horizon. The last three weeks have been messy and blurry, leaving Draco exhausted and thankful it’s over. 

Astoria’s family insisted on a pureblood funeral, all pomp and circumstance, rituals, and stifling eulogies. It felt wrong to be there, standing on their estate while they put on an extravagant show of grief. It felt like he was betraying the truth of Astoria and everything she embodied. He had immense gratitude that Pansy and Daphne were with him; they recognised that tradition without belief held no meaning. 

Draco knew deep down what Astoria really desired, and he could give that to her. He could give her the memorial by the sea, surrounded by the people who embraced them the most and accepted them for everything they are. 

In this, Draco understands Astoria will never come to their shingle beach ever again. She will never dance against the water, collect wildflowers, or watch the sun bloom across the sky. Draco will never see her hair wind-blown, messy, and beautiful. 

Draco’s eyes sting at the finality of it all. This is his life now, a life without her: without her presence, her laughter, her smile and grace. It’s all gone now, too soon, and he wishes he had soaked in those tender moments more often, that he didn’t falter so many times in the past when admitting his love to her. 

“Hey, er— Malfo—” 

Draco whirls at the sound of a familiar voice. Harry’s there, standing next to him as the waves crash behind them. 

“You came,” Draco whispers. In a small recess of Draco’s mind, he can acknowledge just how beautiful Harry looks in his black shirt and black trousers. His long hair is pulled in a messy ponytail, thick stray strands tucked behind his left ear. The last time Draco saw him was when they were sending the kids off to Hogwarts. It feels like another lifetime. 

“Well, yes,” Harry answers, his eyebrows knitting together. “Al asked me to.”

Draco turns to the ocean again, ignoring the faint heat rising on his cheeks. “Yes, Scorpius did owl him.”

“Right,” Harry says. “Al was wondering if he could...stay for the night. If that’s okay with you,” he adds quickly.

“Of course,” Draco replies. “It will be good. For Scorpius.”

“Right,” Harry repeats. “I’ll, um...”

“I used to tease her. Tell her she was the birth of Aphrodite,” Draco whispers, staring into the waves to watch the remains cover the rocks in the sand. “She loved the water. It was as if she was born out of sea foam itself.”

The sky morphs into a brilliant palette of orange, pink, and purple, spreading across the clouds like an intricate series of brush strokes. The water edges closer to their feet, the high tide rolling in. This was Astoria’s favourite time to come down to the shore. Draco doesn’t want to miss it. 

“Stay,” he says, softly. He looks at Harry for a long moment. “The sunset is perfect this time of year.” 

“Okay,” Harry replies, and stares out onto the horizon. The light catches his cheekbones, highlights the green of his eyes, the several-day stubble around his chin. Draco looks away.

They watch the sunset in silence.  
  


** **-October 2019-** **

  


Harry doesn’t talk about the funeral. He doesn’t bring up the way Malfoy looked, how Albus’s stay with Scorpius extended through the entire weekend. He remained silent even when he noticed the permanent crease that appeared between Albus’s eyebrows, a perpetual slight frown on his lips as he went through the Floo to start his classes again at Hogwarts that following Monday.

He says nothing because there’s nothing to say. He doesn’t want to talk about the look on Malfoy’s face when he saw Harry, that hopeful tenor in his voice. He doesn’t want to talk about staying with him to watch the sun go to sleep against the horizon, how it echoed in his brain for days, how he keeps thinking about it almost a month later. 

Until Hermione asks about it. 

They’re sitting in a cafe near St Mungo’s, their drinks settled on the surface of a small circular table. Hermione is still in her lime green robes, having just finished the overnight shift. Her wild hair is pulled up in a bun, a mess of curls resting on the top of her head. She looks tired but alert, and they share amicable silence before she asks, “How was the funeral?”

Harry’s staring into his tea, the sound of Malfoy’s voice ringing in his ears. He hears the ocean breaking against the rocks and sand, thinks of his wide grey eyes, his sad frown. When Harry looks up and sees Hermione’s eyebrow lifted in anticipation, his shoulders tense.

“How did you know?” Harry had told no one about going except Ginny, and only then did he discuss Albus spending the night with Scorpius.

“I was invited,” Hermione says matter-of-factly, as if it’s normal to receive an invitation to Draco Malfoy’s wife’s funeral. As if they were all mates and met up at the pub when they had a free night and got someone to watch the kids. As if they had lunch dates between work shifts and shared Sunday roasts together. 

“What?” Harry asks, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. 

“I was invited,” Hermione repeats. Harry stares at her, gobsmacked. She sighs and looks out the cafe window into the busy street. “Astoria was my patient.”

“Wha—How come you never told me about this?”

Hermione turns back to Harry and tilts her head. “Patient confidentiality? You do know that we practice that at St Mungo’s, correct?”

“But why—”

“The team worked with her because of her condition,” Hermione explains. “We’ve been engaging in a considerable amount of research and implementing test trials to see if we could prolong her life.”

“You’ve lost me,” Harry says. “What are you on about?”

Hermione wrinkles her eyebrows. “Harry,” she says very, very slow as if he’s very, very, daft. He shifts in his seat. “Do you know how she died?”

The answer is no, it didn’t. Harry knows about death all too well, and honestly—the less he knows about Malfoy’s wife, the better. He had seen death personally, all brilliant white, accompanied with the requisite mentor. He had looked at his choices on that empty platform between life and death and had come back. 

In his choice to come back, Harry made a personal vow to never explore the curiosity that accompanies death ever again.

Hermione sighs. She looks disappointed. Harry tightens his jaw as his hands clench his knees. When Hermione gets like this Harry feels like she’s dissecting him, looking at him under a magnifying glass. He hates it. 

“She was cursed. It was a family curse, and it passed down through genetics. She—” Hermione pauses and swallows hard. “She never expected to live as long as she did.”

Harry knew that Hermione had been working with a special team of Healers investigating curse-borne diseases, and he knew about her enthusiasm in her discoveries with integration of Muggle-related treatments into the wizarding world. She was so proud and happy when her lobbying of Muggle science and technology integrations was successful at the Wizengamot; it expanded help for survivors of the war and gave Hermione a purpose that Harry hadn’t seen since they were young and she organised S.P.E.W.

“We were friends,” Hermione continues. She rolls her eyes when she sees Harry’s still shocked expression. “Seriously, it’s been over twenty years. People change.”

“Yeah, sure, but it’s...it’s—” _Malfoy_, Harry starts to say, but it sounds overwrought and inexplicably wrong. It’s the kind of phrase he’d say gathered around a meal at Hogwarts when they were kids, and they’re not kids anymore. But it doesn’t shake the fact that one of his best mates says she’s friends with Draco Malfoy. That she’s friends with someone who used to spit racial slurs at her. With someone she literally slapped in the face.

Maybe Hermione is right. It’s been twenty years. Harry hates that he is always in battle with the glamorised idea of what society believes him to be, the perfect representation of unity, patriotism, and hope. In reality, even after two decades, Harry doesn’t think he’s closer to any of those things than when he was seventeen. 

“Draco helped a lot,” Hermione continues, interrupting Harry’s inner monologue. “He did a lot of personal research, discovered ways to access prestigious medical databases, and helped find Muggle specialists we could speak to about their own case work.” Hermione looks out the window of the cafe again, her pensive expression deepening. “He really loved her.”

Harry thinks about the photos on the mantel, the one of Astoria and Malfoy against the Muggle car, young, free, and so happy. He thinks about their carefree expressions, how lost they were in each other.

“Why didn’t you go?” 

Hermione blinks, broken from her thoughts. “Oh, Ron and I couldn’t get our schedules coordinated. He insisted I go alone, but I knew he would have wanted to be there. I sent Draco an owl about—” She takes a deep sigh and shakes her head. “I really wish we could have gone.” 

Harry searches for something to say. He doesn’t know how to handle this new bit of information, and a small, uncomfortable part of him feels as though he’s been betrayed. The fondness in Hermione’s voice when she talks about Astoria is so sincere, it makes Harry want to dig deeper to find out more about this kinship that they had developed. He’s surprised he wants to ask dozens of questions, most of them about Malfoy. 

Harry doesn’t ask. 

Hermione’s mobile buzzes on the table. She studies the screen, a crease forming between her eyebrows, before she taps a response with rapid efficiency. “That’s Ron,” she says, a warm smile spreading across her face. “Wants to know what I want from the Greek place I love. Would you like to join us?” 

Harry says yes.


	4. Chapter 4

**-October 2019-**

  


The house is lonely without Astoria. 

Everything appears dimmer, dulled, scoured of the radiance that used to surround every room. Even the ocean seems angry and battered, whitecaps peppering the water’s surface for days. 

Draco wonders if this loneliness will swallow him whole. 

It took almost three weeks for Draco to go in the bedroom. While he would never forbid Scorpius to venture inside, it seemed they had an unspoken agreement that the room would be left alone. Draco’s nerves were alight with a new bone-chilling panic. Despite entering that exact room countless times before, encompassed in love and light, he somehow feared the walls may have changed, may have turned foul and dark, inviting something awful to take its place. 

He waited until Scorpius left for Hogwarts. He wanted to protect his son from carrying with him the memory of the empty bedroom his mother withered away in. Draco instead wanted his son to take with him lasting memories of who she was before the sickness took over, and cling onto the overflowing joy she brought them. 

When Draco finally enters the room, the air is stale with dust and a faint hint of flowers. Draco expects everything to look different, maybe harsh and unfamiliar, but it doesn’t. Instead, it remains in the same state as it was the day she died. There’s the blanket dishevelled towards the bottom of the bed, the single pillow with an indentation in the middle, the wingback chair in the corner, a book set on the arm. 

On the bedside table, on her side, there’s a glass filled halfway with water.

Draco stands in the doorway, staring at the glass. He desperately wants to wish her back, just to have one moment to see the crooked tilt in her grin, to feel the warmth of her lips, to hear the ring of her laugh. 

“I miss you,” Draco whispers into the room, hands clenching at his sides. “And I—I don’t know how to do this. Without you.” The clawing in his chest tightens around his heart and he leans against the doorway for relief. 

He closes his eyes, thinks of Astoria holding Scorpius by the ocean, frothy waves splashing over her bare feet. He thinks of her hair tangling in the wind, long tendrils flying over her cheeks, and her infectious smile shining in the sunlight until the emotion fades away like his memories.

**\--**

  
The owl from Neville arrives on an early afternoon enquiring about Draco’s availability to discuss important paperwork. In a sudden irrational fit of panic, Draco wonders if Astoria’s will has gone tits up and Gringotts has somehow become the proud owners of their vaults, encompassing several familial personal effects. He requests the next available appointment.

Draco expects the overwhelming display of Muggle and magical plants in Neville’s office. He expects having to circumvent a newer non-poisonous, but very sentient vined herbological monstrosity that routinely takes a liking to Draco every time he enters this office. He expects seeing Neville sitting at his desk, patient and calm, waiting for him. 

What Draco doesn’t expect upon entering that same office of Neville Longbottom is Pansy and Daphne seated across his desk, a large ornate white box between them. An empty chair sits, presumably, for him. In front of each chair is a sealed piece of parchment. 

Draco pauses, eyes growing wide at the sight of them as the door clicks shut behind him. “What the fuck?” 

“Eloquent as ever,” Pansy drawls without providing Draco a single glance. Daphne shakes her head, leaning over to dole a gentle smack on Pansy’s shoulder. 

Neville extends his hand in front of him, gesturing towards the unoccupied chair. “Draco, if you could have a seat, I can explain.”

With considerable trepidation, Draco takes the seat, glancing at Pansy and Daphne for clues. Daphne shrugs, her lips pursed in confusion while Pansy maintains a steady gaze on Neville. Upon quick observation, Draco notes that the room seems bigger than the last time he was here. Neville must have upgraded. The desk is far larger, and his assortment of books has increased, filling the built-in bookcases covering the longest wall to the brim. 

The swirling anxiety gathering in Draco’s chest is distracting, the reverberating tremble like a gong between his ribcage. He finds that he has to unclench his hands as they linger over the arms of his chair. Pansy’s hand suddenly darts out to rest on Draco’s knee, offering a reassuring squeeze. 

“Right, so I’m sure you all are wondering why we’re here today,” Neville begins, ignoring Pansy’s grunt, and the roll of her eyes. “Astoria came to me earlier this year to revise parts of her will.”

“What?” Draco demands, sitting up straight. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

“You weren’t informed, Draco, because as the executor of her estate, she specifically asked me not to say anything to you,” Neville says, his tone placid. “I know that it may come as a shock to you and you will certainly have a lot of questions, but I believe if you listen, they will all be answered.”

Draco slumps back in his chair and crosses his arms. How could Astoria plan all this without telling him? Why would she do this behind his back? When did she have the time? Between her treatments and Healer appointments, how did she find time to meet up with their solicitor to—

Then it dawns on Draco. All those mornings and early afternoons that she disappeared were to come here. It explains why when she returned home she looked so exhausted and stretched thin. But why would she not want Draco to know? A sudden bubble of anger grows in the pit of Draco’s stomach, and he shifts in his chair. Pansy squeezes his knee again. 

Neville studies a piece of parchment before he speaks. “First, Astoria wanted me to give each of you a personal letter. Her instructions were that you were to read them after this appointment. Second, she wanted me to give each of you this.” He reaches into the box and pulls out three separate envelopes. 

Daphne stares at the envelope in her hands. “Can we open them?” 

“Yes,” Neville replies.

“Utterly ridiculous that we have to ask permission to open a bloody envelope,” Pansy mutters. “I’d bet my left tit she’s laughing at us right now, wherever the fuck she is.”

Draco snorts. Pansy quirks an eyebrow. “What? Just because my wife died doesn’t mean I have lost my love of gallows humour.”

Pansy’s lips turn up on the sides. “And to think, we thought we may have lost you forever.”

“Wha—” Daphne whispers, bewildered. She’s the first to open her envelope. “Her dying wish is—She wants us to go to a gig?”

Draco opens his envelope to a single ticket. It’s for one of Astoria’s favourite bands, playing in a fortnight. They hadn’t been to a gig in... Merlin, Draco can’t even remember. It used to be one of their beloved pastimes when they were younger. Astoria made it her personal mission to show Draco everything about the Muggle world. She wanted to prove to him that there was more to life than the narrow, broken pieces of their pureblood world. She wanted him to see that life without constraints or woeful ignorance could be wondrous, exciting, and alluring.

This last year has been all about Astoria’s recovery, and then about her rapid decline. Even up to the very last day she was alive, Astoria spoke about how much she missed the bass thrumming in the floors, the scent of sweat in the air, that light airy emotion of bliss when the connection between herself and the music came to life. And even though the connection was temporary, once that moment happened, there was no mistaking or forgetting it. 

Draco’s breathless. It’s as if someone has punched him in the gut. The air is too thick, his throat scratchy and dry, and he doesn’t understand. Why does she want this for him? Going to a gig is the last thing Draco needs to be thinking about right now, and it seems, according to their solicitor, his deceased wife has requested he does this as a part of her will. 

But Astoria wanted this for Draco. She wanted him to have this experience even if he couldn’t have it with her anymore. 

“We have to go,” Draco says, voice shaking. “She loved this band and never got to see them. We have to go.”

“Of course, Draco,” Daphne says with a calming reassurance. “Remember we used to all go together? How much fun we had?” 

“I remember you and Pansy snogging more than paying attention,” Draco mutters as he continues to study the ticket. 

He can almost hear Pansy roll her eyes. “Oh, please, as if we didn’t have to endure watching all the Muggle blokes you pulled—”

Neville chuckles and Pansy stops speaking. All three of them stare at him.

“I’m sorry,” Neville says, amusement shining in his eyes. There are the faintest signs of crows feet in the corners. “It’s just...she told me that this would probably happen, and for whatever reason I thought she was taking the piss.”

“Astoria?” Daphne says. “Astoria said we—we would...what?”

“Reminisce about the ‘good ol’ days’?” Pansy supplies, sarcasm bleeding into her words. 

Draco shakes his head as he continues to stare at the ticket. She had to have purchased these months in advance, had to have known that his attempts at extending her life were fruitless. Draco always thought she was giving up, but she wasn’t giving up at all. She was preparing. She wanted everyone she ever loved to be taken care of. She wanted them to know how much she loved them. 

Tears blur Draco’s vision and he blinks them back. “She wanted us to be together,” he says quietly, looking up at Daphne and Pansy’s surprised expressions. “She wanted to make sure that we didn’t deal with this alone.” 

“Oh!” Daphne gasps, her hand reaching up to cover her mouth. Her eyes start to glisten. 

Pansy sighs. “Ah, damn it.” She dabs a sculpted French tipped finger to the side of one eye with impressive precision so as not to affect her eyeliner. “Even in death she surprises me.”

Draco grins through his tears. “That’s why I married her.”

**\--**

  
Neville asks Draco to stay behind as Daphne and Pansy leave for the lobby. “I have more items to discuss with you.”

“So, did Gringotts fuck up our vaults?” Draco wonders. 

Neville furrows his eyebrows. “Nothing of the sort, why would you think that?” 

Draco shrugs. “Given my proclivity to living dangerously on the edge of ruin, I often try to set myself up for success by thinking of the worst-case scenario.” 

“That...sounds exhausting.”

“On the contrary. By setting my expectations as low as possible, anything above that is a pleasant surprise. One could argue I’m optimistic.” The smile Draco shoots Neville may be a little sardonic. 

Neville’s eyes crinkle again in amusement. “Astoria said you were funny.” 

Draco hiring Neville as his solicitor was not expected. After working a couple of years at Hogwarts as their Herbology professor, Neville retired from teaching and went to university to seek out a different career path. Some chalked it up to an early midlife crisis, others assumed that it was a side effect of being an intimate part of the Second War. Either way, Neville’s popularity rose when the press did a huge exposé on how he came to be the Saviour's solicitor when their first child was born.

Astoria knew Neville from Hogwarts, and after the announcement of her and Draco’s engagement, she sought other forms of legal counsel outside of family recommendations. Astoria didn’t want her decisions clouded by her family’s expectations. She preferred to make them on her own. It was one of her many tiny rebellions.

Draco’s interactions with Neville have always been professional: make the appointment, have the appointment, leave, and pay the invoice. Perfunctory pleasantries exchanged without discomfort. It wasn’t as though they were discussing the latest Quidditch Cup, or the popular Muggle movie showing at the local cinema, or a new hit single on the wireless. 

It’s strange how Neville is gazing at Draco with such warmth, as if they are old friends. While it has been two decades since the war, and Draco now has the freedom to roam Diagon Alley without so much as a double take (even able to wear Muggle clothing that reveals his Dark Mark), he never thought this would happen—that he could coexist with someone whom he’d tormented and whom he’d once believed he needed to hate. 

“How...often did you see her?” Draco hesitantly asks. 

Neville considers the question. “We saw each other almost weekly for about two to three months. She had a lot of requests and a lot of preparations that needed to be set in place.”

“I don’t understand why she would do all this,” Draco says with an incredulous shake of his head. “It just seems...so extreme.” 

“I can’t say for certain,” Neville starts delicately, “but if I were to take a professional guess at this, I would say she did it because she loved you and Scorpius very much.” 

Neville reaches back into the box and hands Draco a small parcel. “She wanted you to have this with the letter. And I am to inform you that Scorpius has also received correspondence from Astoria. It is to be delivered today at Hogwarts.”

Draco nods and looks down at these random gifts from Astoria. It’s shocking and unexpected, and in this moment he doesn’t know how to react to any of it. He shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe she did this for us.”

When he peers up at Neville, he’s smiling. “I can.”

**\--**

  
In a dimly lit Muggle wine bar located down the street from Neville’s office, Pansy announces, “So, I guess we’re going to a gig together.”

“Yup,” Daphne replies. 

“You better study up on the discography,” Draco says. “Astoria would be hacked off if you showed up and didn’t know at least half of the new album.” 

“To Astoria,” Pansy says, lifting her glass of wine. Daphne lifts her glass and Draco slowly lifts his to toast, swallowing back the ball of emotion that’s been lodged in his throat since opening Astoria’s tickets. 

“To Astoria,” Draco murmurs. 

He’s reminded of the moment after leaving Neville’s office, walking into the office lobby to see Daphne and Pansy reading over their letters. Pansy looked up, her face betraying its usual impassivity as she walked over to Draco and hugged him with unbidden ferocity, surprising Draco. After a few silent beats, he relaxed into her arms. 

“Hey,” he murmured, giving a final squeeze and pulling back. “All right there?”

At his silence, Pansy sniffed, the words tumbling out of her at a rapid pace. “I will say this once, and then we never have to repeat this again. I love you, you’re my best friend, and I will never, ever give up on you. And I will not let you rot away in that house dealing with this all alone, and so Merlin help me I will hex your bollocks off if you even try.”

Draco laughed and Pansy hugged him again. He had then peered over to Daphne, pale but amused, and said, “I gather you share this sentiment?” 

Pansy pulled back as Daphne walked over to take Draco’s hands in hers. “You were the best thing that ever happened to her. Of course I do.”

Now, as the three of them sit together sharing a bottle of tempranillo, the soft glow of light surrounding them, Draco realises he’s missed this. He’s missed the warmth and comfort of being with friends, of having a casual conversation. So much of the last year dealt with the monotony of appointments, potion doses, and worry, worry, worry—Astoria had called it pointless and boring so many times despite Draco’s frustration. Now, sitting here with their friends, he realises that what Astoria meant was that they should have been living rather than just existing.

“Merlin, the new albums,” Pansy laments. “You’re right. We’ll have to study them. Who the fuck knows what kind of influence she has on our lives in the afterlife. My biggest fear is I’ll wake up straight.”

Daphne tilts her head back and laughs. The sound is so similar to the ring of Astoria’s laugh that Draco flinches. He has to control his breathing, his gaze fixed on Daphne as she reaches for Pansy’s hand, their fingers lacing together. Daphne and Astoria were never regarded as looking alike, what with Daphne’s blonde hair, bright blue eye,s and fair colouring to Astoria’s dark brown hair, eyebrows, and deep green eyes. But Draco sees the similarities of the sisters right now. He sees Astoria in the way Daphne’s lips tilt in a smirk, in the shape of her eyes, and even in the way she quirks an inquisitive eyebrow. It's a sharp sting throughout his body, but a strange comfort he nonetheless welcomes.

“Well, at least it’s not a boy band,” Daphne reasons. “Astoria was far too invested in Take That, and now the fuckers are back on tour again.”

“You say that like we may not end up with Shawn Mendes tickets in a few months time,” Draco says, quirking a brow. 

Pansy’s head turns so quick the hairs of her short bob jut out of place. “You’re _joking_,” she huffs as she delicately straightens the stray strands.

Draco snorts. “I wish I was,” he says, smirking into his glass as he takes a long sip. “I don’t know why she loved him so much, his music is utterly unlistenable.” 

“He’s lush,” Daphne says with grave certainty. 

“Yeah. He really is,” Pansy agrees. 

“It amazes me the sacrifices people make to their ears for the sake of their eyes,” Draco says. 

“Hedonism at its finest,” Pansy says with a sip from her glass. 

Then, all of a sudden, Draco feels an all-encompassing pain. It’s like a crashing wave that tugs in his chest, his heart thrumming down into his bones as the grief washes over him, tumbling down, heavy as a waterfall. A voice, similar to his own but sharp and wild screams in his head that Astoria will never come back. Never. Tomorrow will come and Draco will wake in the morning alone, Astoria’s space empty and cold, with no hope of her ever filling that space again. Her absence will be a personal, hellish sentence he’ll carry forever. 

Astoria will never share another day with him. 

“Oh god,” Draco says, scrubbing his face, his shoulders trembling as a chill runs through him. He huffs out a strangled laugh that verges on hysterical. “She’s been gone for over a month and it feels like I lost her yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once.” Draco covers his face with his hands, a choked breath escaping him. “How...how the _fuck_ am I going to do this?”

When he finally lifts his gaze, both Pansy and Daphne have troubled frowns on their faces. Draco grits his teeth and tries not to become angry at the swirl of emotions taking root in his chest. He’s so tired— so tired of being alone and broken and upset. So tired of seeing the sympathetic looks from strangers when he goes into town, and when he talks about Astoria to anyone. 

With the exhaustion, then comes the pangs of guilt. So many people loved Astoria, from the people she knew personally to people she simply passed on the streets. She was a glorious enigmatic force who drew in onlookers with her compassion and demeanour. Even in the early years, people spoke of her kindness despite being married to a Malfoy, and as time went on, people in their small community realised that Draco and Astoria were the same in their values and temperament. In the aftermath of her death, from Diagon Alley to the hamlet, the public’s grief was heavy, and they treated Draco as if he were made of glass. He knows that these people are just showing that they care, that they, too, know what he lost. They approach Draco as if he’s a fragile shard of glass, ready to break at any moment.

Draco knows he’s ready to break at any moment. He is, he knows this. But he longs for someone, anyone, to understand what’s happening in his head, and approach him without the kid gloves—Pansy and Daphne, his closest friends, a definite start.

The door of the pub slams shut, and Draco is pulled from his thoughts with a jerk. “Hey,” Pansy says, reaching over to clasp Draco’s hand. “All right, there?”

“I don’t know,” Draco says honestly, his tone bland. “I really don’t know.”

Pansy squeezes his hand. “That’s okay.”

**  
**-November 2019-**  
**

Harry stands near the surf, his bare feet pressing into the rocky sand. The water is remarkably warm for this time of year and he doesn’t know if the sun is rising or setting, but everything about the sky is the sight of perfection. The clouds are thin, gleaming brush strokes of pink and orange along the horizon. Water birds fly above the waves, edging as close as possible to civilisation before deftly diving to retrieve sustenance beyond the waters.

“Are you looking for your answers in the sea?”

Harry turns and there’s Malfoy, his hair a haloed reflection of the brilliant, lustrous, orange sunlight. Malfoy’s gaze is piercing and intense, and Harry’s heart beats faster, his mouth going dry as he looks upon the other man. 

Harry swallows. “I—I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

Malfoy edges closer, a smile curling his lips. With Malfoy this close to him, Harry delights in the heat of Malfoy's skin, breathes in the bitter salt clinging to his wind-ruffled hair. Malfoy’s pale gaze searches over Harry’s face, his eyes settling on his lips for a long moment before flicking back up, his irises now dark, like a raging storm. 

“Don’t you?” he whispers. Harry’s breath hitches when he sees him coming closer, his lips in a soft smile—

The loud jingle-vibration of Harry’s mobile jolts him awake, and from years of dodging death and war, he grabs for his wand. Immediately he’s faced with immense regret as a wave of nausea and vertigo assault him, coupled with the overnight stale flavour of whisky. Harry falls back against his pillows with a groan, taking several deep breaths in a pitiful attempt to calm the acidic itchy threat of vomit in the back of his throat.

He closes his eyes to stop the room from tilting and finally slams his hand over his vibrating phone. His thumb falters as he tries to swipe to answer, but when he gets it, he barks, “Yeah?”

“Harry? It’s Dean.” There’s a pause. “You all right, mate?”

Harry grunts. “Never better.” He does a blind search for his glasses and shoves them on. 

“You sure?” Dean says, voice dubious. “I know last night was...well. I can call back later?”

The night before was Halloween. Another Halloween Harry was alone. It was even more unbearable than he expected. He tried to concentrate at work but an overwhelming agitation left him on edge the whole day. His assistant Tracy then showed up in his office with a cup of coffee and said, “You know, you’re the head of the DMLE. You can take a personal day if you need to.” He ended up having Tracy reschedule his afternoon meetings and bunked off. 

In his groggy state, Harry makes a mental note to buy her some of those inordinately expensive macaroons she loves.

In the past, Harry and Ginny would go to Godric’s Hollow and visit his parents' grave, sometimes with Ron and Hermione. Before the kids started Hogwarts, they would also attend, setting small handmade gifts on the gravestones. Harry didn’t want to live in the house that his parents were murdered in, and when the Revitalisation Law passed, he had the Potter House renovated to its original state and begrudgingly opened it up to the public. It was either have the local magical council regulate the preservation of the property or spend years watching fanatics and squatters take over the place. Harry chose the less disrespectful evil.

At least then it had a purpose. 

Harry didn’t know what to do this year with the kids off at school and Ginny officially his ex-wife. He considered calling Ginny on Halloween, but it didn’t seem right to seek comfort from her about this. Instead, he found himself sitting at a Muggle pub ordering whisky and trying to forget decades-old memories. When he received a text from Ginny saying, _You don’t have to deal with today alone, I’m here if you need me_, Harry ordered another round, trying to numb his indescribable loss. 

Even after almost forty years, Harry still feels cheated out of so much possibility. Lost, a life where he could have a mother and father. Lost, a life where they could have met their grandkids. Lost, a life where he could have asked them for advice about what the fuck he was supposed to do when everything he believed to be certain, steady, and true wasn’t viable anymore. 

He doesn’t remember making it home. He has half a second of panic at the prospect that he brought someone home with him without remembering—he’s made that mistake once before, and it made the day after so awkward and uncomfortable. With a quick inspection of the room, it doesn’t look as though he will end up coming across a stranger in his kitchen or the loo. 

Harry’s head pangs with a dull thud as Dean’s voice cuts him back to reality. “Harry...Harry? Can you hear me? My signal is utter rubbish here.”

Harry sighs, scrubbing his face with his free hand. “Yeah, s’fine, mate. What’s up?”

“I need to give the final guest list for the gig in a couple of weeks. You’re coming, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Harry says, smacking his dry lips.

“Brilliant,” Dean says. “Okay, mate, I’ll put your name down and see you then. Get some hangover potion or something, you sound like hell.”

Harry hangs up on Dean and lifts his hand, a phial immediately flying into his palm. After he drains the potion, he stretches out on the bed, closing his eyes, and groans, the image of Malfoy by the ocean fluttering back into his mind. The way Malfoy’s voice sounded, like smooth velvet wrapped in warmth, floods his easing, throbbing head. And when Malfoy leaned in to Harry, all Harry wanted to do was lick his skin to see if it tasted like the sea... 

Heat flares across his chest then, and he’s hit with the sudden realisation that he’s half hard. This isn’t some hangover daze. 

Well, shit.

**\--**

  
A cold wind stings Harry’s face when he Apparates into the small alleyway a few streets from the venue. Harry spends more time in the wizarding part of London than the Muggle part, and he makes a mental note, as he tucks his hands in his leather jacket in the frosty night, to rectify this soon.

Winter is settling in, the darkness of night descending early. A deep yellow glow from the streetlamps blankets the pavement as Harry walks up to the venue door, a queue of people presenting tickets to go inside. One bouncer—tall, brooding, and burly—turns and Harry gives his name for the guest list. The man unclasps the velvet rope. “Just go down the hallway and make a right, and you can talk to Jack.”

Harry sends a quick text to the groupchat Dean created entitled, “Hogwarts Reunion Tour” just to let them know he’s arrived. He can already hear music playing, something loud over the speakers, and there’s the sweet-sour scent of alcohol long soaked into every surface of the building. 

Jack points Harry to a stairwell that goes to the VIP booth. As Harry cuts through a line of people waiting for their turn at the loo, he makes a sharp turn around the corner and does a quick double take.

Draco Malfoy is standing at the bar, elbows resting on the counter. Well, more like lounging against the counter, long legs jean-clad, with a too tight white v-neck t-shirt— the complete opposite of what Harry saw roughly three months earlier. The bar’s back light radiates over Malfoy’s face, and Harry sees an absence of circles under his eyes, notices his cheeks have filled out, showing off his high bone structure. 

The base of Harry’s spine grows hot, heat spreading all throughout his torso and onto the back of his neck. He watches as Malfoy bends onto the counter to say something to the bartender; the bartender nods and disappears into a backroom. 

Harry doesn’t realise that he’s even moved until he’s brushing elbows with Malfoy, his side against the worn edge of the countertop. 

Harry’s vividly reminded of his feverish dream of Malfoy, and he has the urge to lean in closer to see if Malfoy smells like sand and salt.

_“Are you looking for your answers in the sea?” _

He shivers when Malfoy’s pale, startled eyes reach his. 

As Harry searches Malfoy’s face, he decides: no. He doesn’t want to seek his answers in the sea, but realises with a curl of want and anticipation, he wants to find his answers with Malfoy.

“What are you doing here?” Malfoy asks, raising a curious eyebrow. 

“I could ask you the same question,” Harry counters. 

Malfoy’s eyes rove over Harry’s outfit before hitching a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Here for the gig.” 

“I didn’t know you liked Muggle music,” Harry yells as the cacophony of people talking and music grows in volume. 

Malfoy narrows his eyes. “Shocking for you, I’m sure.” 

“No,” Harry says, “it’s interesting.” He wants to say more, perhaps pull from Malfoy the same warm, velvet-smooth voice he heard in his dream, but he doesn’t know how. The venue is starting to fill in fast as more people aggressively shuffle by to hold their spaces on the floor. All Harry can think of is, “Big fan of the band?”

Malfoy’s shoulders tense, his gaze focusing on the liquor bottles lined up on the lit shelves covering the bar’s back wall. “You could say that,” he answers, tone stiff. 

Harry furrows his eyebrows, disappointment growing low in his belly. “Hey, I didn’t—” 

“Harry!” Someone calls from behind. Harry immediately turns on his heel when he recognises Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd. He smiles and waves him over. As Dean stops at the bar, he looks past Harry’s shoulder, bewildered. “Did you get lost? I told Jack to—” 

“No, no, I was just—” Harry turns and sees Malfoy has disappeared. “Er, well. I guess I did,” he says, his shoulders sagging as his eyes search the crowd for Malfoy. 

Dean laughs and claps his hand on Harry’s shoulder, drawing away his attention. “Let us carry on then, my wayward son. I got everyone a VIP booth and they’re waiting for you.”

**\--**

  
The VIP booth is more of a dodgy sequestered area on the second floor of the venue, long benches stretched out for sitting. A small private bar sits off to the side, as stocked and brightly lit as the one on the first floor. Dean announces Harry’s arrival, and everyone turns and claps their hands. Harry shakes his head, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Now the revelry can commence!” Seamus announces. 

“There’s bottle service regardless if Harry’s here or not,” Dean says.

“Cheers,” Harry says.

“Anytime, mate. Listen, I gotta go, we’re gonna be called to the stage soon.” Dean leans in close to Harry’s ear. “Have fun, yeah?” he murmurs before clapping Harry on the shoulder once more.

Harry leans against the railing of the booth’s entrance, a swell of excitement brewing in his chest. After seeing Malfoy at this gig, he can’t stop thinking about him. Harry's known he's bi for twenty years, but he's been married and working and hasn't found himself too distracted by men. But Malfoy, with his hair translucent in the dim light, in his crisp white shirt, and black skin-clad jeans, Harry swears he can smell the lingering scent of sand and salt of him. He’s not as confused as he is curious, fully embracing his desire to push the other man against the dirty counter just to see how the fabric of his shirt feels against his hands. 

Hermione walks over, concern etched all over her face. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Harry lies. 

Hermione stares at him for the space of a few beats, weighing her options, and says, “Okay.” 

She also sounds thoroughly unconvinced. Of course. 

Harry glances past Hermione to Luna and Ron listening to Seamus talking animatedly about something. “Is Ginny not coming?”

Hermione pulls out her mobile and glances down at it. “She sent a text to the group saying she wasn’t able to make it because Mark was working late. Did you not get it?”

_No, because I was preoccupied with a pair of fucking skinny jeans_, Harry thinks. “I haven’t checked in a while.”

“Oi!” Ron yells in the background, “Stop faffing about and come get your drinks!”

“Be careful,” Hermione says, leaning in close to Harry’s ear, a bass-laden house remix thrumming through the air. “Whatever it is that Ron’s been getting is dangerous.” 

The drinks are a bright green concoction, sugary to the point of over-sweet and are without a doubt dangerous. After one Harry discards his jacket on one of the empty benches; after two, he sways to the beat of the pre-show music, watching Dean’s roadies set up the stage; after three, Harry tells Hermione about seeing Malfoy.

“Draco’s here?” she says surprised. 

“You didn’t know?” 

Hermione pulls Harry away from the group. “Harry, I’m not his social secretary.” 

“No, but you are his friend.”

“Yes,” Hermione says, with hesitation. “Lately our conversations haven’t been about extracurricular activities, they’ve been about—”

Hermione’s cut off by the lights dimming, the noise from the crowd turning their attention to the stage as cheers of excitement swell and echo, the sound intoxicatingly heady. Harry walks to the edge of the booth, peering at the mass of people pushing to get as close to the stage as possible. It has been a long time since Harry’s been to a gig, and he almost forgot the incredible experience of strangers coming together for just a fleeting experience. 

Dean lines up on the stage with his bandmates and makes their introductions. Their music has made the rounds in the London circuit for a few years now, gaining underground popularity and a decent following. After being on tour for the better part of a decade on their own, huddled into a van venturing all over Europe, and crowd-sourcing to make their way to the States for a bit, an indie label took notice and signed them. This is the first tour as a more established act. 

The headliner’s music is a pop-rock type, charismatic and addictive. Harry moves to the music with ease, watching the lead singer flash a brilliant smile when the crowd screams along to their songs. This is the best part of gigs, Harry thinks, the connectivity to the creator up close, the euphoria of everyone in the same space experiencing this gift at that exact moment. He wishes he could be in the throng of people below, to wave in the movement of the crowd, the pulse of bodies with his. 

Harry searches below, curious to see if he can find Malfoy in the mass of swaying bodies. He wonders, in his alcohol-dazed, music soaked mind—with the loud buzzing in his ears from the ricochet of a guitar, the beat of drums, and the flutter of bass—if Malfoy is also swaying to the music, if his heart beats faster with anticipation before another song, if he closes his eyes when the melody is just right.


	5. Chapter 5

**  
**-November 2019-**  
**

  
The day after the gig, Pansy arrives at Draco’s house with a tilt of her hip and an expectant look on her face. He knows that she is checking in on him, worried that he spends too much time alone with nothing but the sound of the sea and memories and empty rooms.

“So, did you have fun last night?” Pansy asks, stretching her long legs across the sofa.

Draco sighs. He knows that Pansy and Daphne were concerned about him going to the gig, especially since Astoria had set the entire evening up for them. They kept checking in on him the whole night, small reassuring squeezes and happy smiles. It was fun—the most fun Draco’s had in a long time. 

But his mind was preoccupied with the realisation that Harry was also at the gig, and how good he looked in his leather jacket, with his too-long hair tied up on the top of his head. How his green eyes shone against the back light of the bar, and how, for the first time since he’d been with Astoria, Draco wondered if all those fantasies over the years could ever come true. 

“Well, you were certainly distracted,” Pansy continues, stretched out lazily on the sofa, a hand brushing along the top. Her tone is teasing. “It’s rude to go to a gig and be distracted.” 

Draco crosses his arms. “I was not distracted.”

“I know it can be hard,” Pansy says, her voice shifting to sympathy, “but she wanted you to have fun.”

“It’s not that,” Draco huffs. 

Pansy points a knowing finger to him. “You’re tetchy. When you’re tetchy, it means I am right.”

“I am not tetchy!” Draco says tetchily. 

Pansy gives a self-satisfied smile. “So what happened?” 

Draco sighs, resting his head on the wingback chair, staring at the ceiling. After returning from the bar empty handed, Draco came up with a quick lie about the queue being exorbitantly long. He knew Pansy would see right through it, but also knew that given the circumstances, she wouldn’t question it. He thought he’d have at least a few days before she started demanding an explanation, and even then he expected it to be through a text, not literally showing up at his front doorstep. 

“I have no obligations today,” Pansy drawls. “I’m a very patient woman.” 

“Fine,” Draco says, darting a quick glance. “Harry was at the gig last night.” 

Pansy straightens up on the couch. “Potter?” 

“Who else?” Draco says with a withering stare. 

There’s a pause. “Why was he there?” 

Draco shrugs, attempting nonchalance. “Ostensibly, to go to a gig.” 

“I know one of his friends is in the band that opened. Oh, come off it,” Pansy says when Draco’s eyes widen in surprise. “Don’t you pay attention?”

“I don’t engage in the habit of updating myself on the lives of Gryffindors from what was to be our graduating class, no,” Draco says.

“No, not all, just one,” Pansy murmurs. 

“Sod off.” 

“See? Tetchy again.” Pansy pauses, running a finger over the stitching of a cushion. “What did he say to you?” 

Draco shrugs. “Nothing of consequence.”

“Draco.” 

“What do you want me to say?” Draco snaps. “That we discussed the details of his recent divorce and that I am faring well with the loss of my wife?”

Pansy pauses, and Draco almost hears the gears in her brain working. “He came to the funeral.”

Draco looks back up at the ceiling, exhaling an exasperated sigh. “Yes. You know he did, Pansy. His son is close with Scorpius.”

“What’s going on?” Pansy asks, eyebrows furrowed, her lips turned down. Her gaze is assessing, but not angry. She looks worried. 

Draco rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing going on. Why are you asking me this?”

“Draco,” Pansy says, her voice so soft and delicate, like she’s worried he will break if she pushes too hard. Draco grits his teeth. He turns to the window and stares at the horizon, watching the surface of the water, flat and smooth like glass. “Did Astoria know?”

“Did my wife know that the Saviour’s son is best mates with our only child? Yes, she did.” 

“You know that’s not what I’m asking you.”

Draco gives her a challenging stare. “What are you asking then?” 

Pansy turns her face away, hair falling over her cheek. When she speaks, her voice is cautious. “You’ve always felt...strongly about him. I thought maybe—”

“You know I have never been unfaithful to Astoria in body or in mind,” Draco says viciously, eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe that you’re even _suggesting_—” 

“I am not suggesting anything of the sort,” Pansy says, her voice even, her eyes fixed. “I know you love her more than the waking world itself. I know that you wanted nothing more than for her to live.” She adjusts on the sofa, scoots closer to Draco. “I’m only asking if she ever knew—” 

“Yes,” Draco says, leaning forward in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I never told her, but she knew. She told me before she...Before she—” 

A coil in Draco’s chest twists tightly. In this moment, he sees nothing but the sallowness of Astoria’s skin when she gasped her last breath, her lips purple and eyes closed. He feels that familiar chill radiating through his bones, down into his knees at the image of her face relaxing for the first time in months, looking so peaceful, so wonderfully gorgeous, all the suffering vanished. 

Breathing is impossible; Draco feels hot, so hot right now, the coil compressing in his chest, strangling his lungs, and Draco is certain he’s dying, he must be dying because the buzzing in his ears is so loud and his heart is beating so fast and it’s so bloody hot and— 

“Draco,” Pansy whispers close by. He feels a tentative hand rest on his knee. “Draco, listen to me. Remember the summers in Provence? How the sun felt on our skin? And how clean the air smelled?”

Draco recalls the summer he took Astoria there. He watched her walk down rows of lavender, her fingers floating over the tiny blossoms, soaking in the mere essence of their existence. He felt breathless watching her as she leaned over, hands cupped around a bush, rubbing the purple flowers in her palms before bringing their scent up to her nose. Later she pushed him up against the stoney facade of the villa they were staying at, the heady scent of lavender heavy in the air, the one thing anchoring Draco as she kissed him with such conviction it made him dizzy. 

Pansy cautiously removes Draco’s hands from his eyes. He’s shocked to feel dampness in his palms, hot tears still spilling over, and this is just too much, this feeling of loss and fear of the unknown. 

“I’m going crazy,” Draco whispers. Pansy pulls him into a hug, wraps her arms around him and he shivers. 

“You’re not going crazy,” Pansy says, her voice rough and shaky. She pulls him closer, tighter, with a protective force as if she's worried he will spontaneously fade away.

“Then what’s happening to me?” Draco can’t stop shivering, his teeth chattering. “Why do I feel like I’m fucking dying?”

“Shh,” Pansy says, her hand rubbing small circles on his shoulder. He feels so small and helpless right now, so out of control of his own emotions. It reminds him of the time when Scorpius suffered night terrors, and the only way he could be soothed was for one of them to hold him until he fell back asleep. Some nights Scorpius was so inconsolable Astoria slept in the bed next to him. Draco would find them curled up in the morning, peaceful and perfect. 

Pansy pulls back, rests her hands on Draco’s shoulders. Her eyes are shiny with the threat of tears, and it hurts Draco to see this, to see that he makes everyone he loves feel this way. 

“Fuck,” Draco says, scrubbing his face, leaning back into the chair. Pansy settles on the floor beside him, her hand remaining on his arm. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” 

“None of us know what the fuck we’re doing.” Pansy sighs deeply. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t intending to upset you.”

“It’s not you,” Draco says. “It just...happens sometimes.”

Pansy shakes her head. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed. It’s not my business.”

Draco scoffs. “You have been privy to this information far longer than anyone else.” He closes his eyes. “In my own blindness I didn’t realise she always knew. She didn’t tell me until the very end.”

“Oh, Draco,” Pansy whispers, her hand tightening on his knee. Draco’s eyes sting, and once again, he finds himself falling apart in a matter of minutes. He feels ripped open, over-exposed, and afraid. Even when Draco feared for his life during the war, when the Dark Lord occupied his home, his spirit omnipresent and looming, Draco never felt this out of control and lost, like a ship adrift in open waters without any way to navigate home. 

“What about Scorpius?” Draco asks, his voice choked. “I can’t be a mess like this in front of him.”

“There is nothing wrong with being a mess,” Pansy reasons. “You of all people should know vulnerability shouldn't be concealed. Scorpius doesn’t need to see you hiding your emotions.”

“Well he certainly doesn’t need to see me losing the plot.” Draco’s heartbeat finally slows, the overwhelming heat on his skin dissipating. He feels gross and sweaty, but he can’t move, not yet; the exhaustion is too strong. 

In a month, Scorpius will be coming home for Christmas. Astoria always made Christmastime special, planning walks through the village to look at the houses adorned in lights and candles, going with Scorpius to find the perfect Christmas tree, wrapping gifts with huge bows and personalised notes. Draco wants to give Scorpius that again, wants to provide all of the stability, happiness, and love he deserves, but he doesn’t know if he can.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe Scorpius is feeling the same way? That maybe he’s worried about you just as much as you are worried about him?” Pansy asks. “He needs you. And you need him.” 

Pansy stays until the evening. They walk around the village square, talking until the sky stipples with stars. The winter chill is settling in, wind sharp and ground damp from a recent rain. When they return to the house, it feels different—warm and inviting once again. Pansy gives Draco a hug before she Floos home and demands that he text her in the morning to make lunch plans for the following week. 

Later, in Astoria’s room, Draco points his wand to the bed to rearrange the pillow, to fix the blanket. The wingback chair slides back into its corner, the water glass floats away to the kitchen. He stands in the doorway after he’s finished, stares once again into a clean, empty room. 

When Draco turns to leave, the door remains open.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
The second time Harry sees Draco Malfoy after the funeral is completely and utterly an accident.

Harry is turning into the coffee shop to meet up with Hermione during her scheduled lunch break. He’s running late, preoccupied with texting to let her know where he is, when he literally grabs someone's hand as he reaches for the door. 

“Shit, sorry, mate,” Harry rushes, and when he looks up, he sees Malfoy standing in front of him, grey eyes wide with surprise. He looks different in the daylight, more striking than in the anaemic lighting at the gig. Malfoy’s hair has grown out a little, and the sunglasses resting atop his head make his fringe fall loosely over his forehead. The familiar warmth spreads over Harry’s chest. 

Malfoy tilts his head, peering down at the door handle, then back to Harry. “If I could have my hand back I’d be much obliged.” 

“Shit, sorry,” Harry says quickly, pulling his hand away and shoving it into his jacket pocket. The warmth flares from his chest into his cheeks. What the hell is wrong with him? This is Malfoy, for fuck’s sake. Harry needs to get his head together quick. 

“Still a man of few words, I see,” Malfoy says, a hint of amusement in his voice. He pauses and looks at the door. “Shall we settle who goes first with a round of rochambeau?”

“Ro-what?” Harry says confused. 

Malfoy chuckles softly. “Nevermind, you first.” He waves an elegant hand in front of him. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” Harry says too quickly, and opens the door. “You can go.” 

Malfoy regards the door hesitantly and nods. “Thanks.” 

The queue is longer than usual, and Harry takes a breath, looking at his mobile to see if Hermione has texted back. He keeps looking through his texts in a futile attempt to distract himself from the fact that he’s sharing awkward space with Malfoy again, and how his subconscious is playing terrible tricks on him, torturing him with these bloody dreams of sunsets and rugged coastlines and striking blond hair and implausibly vivid silver eyes. 

And now Malfoy stands in front of Harry, clad in dark grey trousers, and matching waistcoat with a dark blue shirt. He leans on his left hip, tilting up an oxford clad foot on its heel, a navy blue peacoat draped gracefully over an arm as he waits in the queue. Harry takes a deep breath. 

The line moves a fraction. 

“Did you have fun?” Harry manages, and immediately regrets his decision to do this, to try to make small talk with Malfoy. Maybe he should just turn around and walk out, text Hermione some excuse about work. He knows Tracy will ask him a barrage of questions, but he’d rather handle the third degree from his secretary than the kaleidoscope of emotions he’s experiencing right now. 

Malfoy turns slowly, his expression guarded. “I’m sorry?”

“At the gig,” Harry says. “Did you...have fun?”

“Oh,” Malfoy says. “Sure.” 

“That sounds unconvincing.”

Malfoy lifts a sharp eyebrow. “I was unaware that my opinion was under evaluation.”

“You said you were a fan of the band,” Harry explains, “Usually enthusiasm accompanies it.”

Malfoy's gaze is unreadable. Harry wants to transport to the day of the funeral, when Malfoy asked him to stay and watch the sunset, emotions open and wide as the sea. Right now his expression is held back, hiding something deeper. 

“My wife is a fan. Was. Was a fan,” Malfoy explains. “They were one of her favourites, and she purchased them before...everything.”

The line moves forward again. 

“She had good taste in music,” Harry says, and finds that he means it honestly. The band’s stage presence was magnetic, keeping the crowd enraptured by the set. Harry was impressed at the placement of songs in the set list, allowing for a slower middle and ramping up at the end to close on a tremendous high. Harry was buzzing afterwards, that familiar post show glow, and he forgot how addictive it was, how much he had actually missed it. 

“She really loved going to gigs,” Malfoy says, looking over Harry’s shoulder, voice far away and thoughtful. He blinks, and focuses on Harry again. “She adored it.” 

“I hadn’t been to one in a long time,” Harry admits. “I’d forgotten how incredible an experience it is.” 

Malfoy holds his gaze on Harry, the corners of his mouth quirking up. The look is penetrating, pulling Harry into the storm, and he wants to wade right into the middle of it, lose himself inside it forever. His heart is beating to the flip of his stomach, and fucking hell, Harry has half a mind to reach out and grab Malfoy, just to pull him closer and explore. He has a sudden panicked notion that Malfoy might actually be a legilimens with an unobstructed view of all the thoughts swirling around his head. Then logic settles, and Malfoy’s tilting his head, an actual smile slipping into view. 

“Sir?” the barista behind them calls, the former queue now vanished. Malfoy blinks, spins around and walks up to the counter. 

Harry remains frozen. His heart is still rattling in his chest, the ever present somersault in his stomach. The barista gives a quizzical look at Harry standing in the middle of this coffee shop like a complete wally, and he finally manages to move forward to place his order. Malfoy stands off to the side waiting, the sunlight glittering around him. Harry can’t take his eyes off of him. 

A jangle of the door and the call of Harry’s name rattles his attention. He turns to see Hermione, frazzled, and breathless as she babbles, “I am so sorry, we had this new case come in and we had to have an emergency meeting about it and the meeting ran—Draco?” 

Malfoy, who had moved over to the small preparation table, looks up and smiles brightly. Hermione walks over, and the two share a warm embrace. Harry stands by awkwardly, trying to distract himself with the very serious and important task of waiting for his drink, but instead finds himself listening in to their conversation. 

“What brings you to this side of town?” Hermione asks.

“I just got back from—” 

“Oh yes! How did it go?”

There’s a stretch of silence before Malfoy speaks again. “It...was hard. But good.”

“I’m so glad,” Hermione says, her voice blanketed in warmth and love. Harry chances a glance and sees she's holding Malfoy’s hand. “And Scorpius?” 

Malfoy sighs. “He’s doing as well as he can be, considering. The sessions are helping. At least that’s what I’m told.”

Harry’s drink appears on the counter. 

After grabbing his cup, he steps closer to Hermione and Malfoy, both looking over in slight surprise, clearly forgetting Harry’s presence. Malfoy glances at Harry and says, “I should go.”

“Don’t,” Harry blurts, earning him a stare from Hermione as she tilts her head curiously. Harry ignores it. “I mean...you could join us.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen a little, but he recovers, peering down at his watch. “I’m afraid I can’t,” he says. “I have a meeting to attend.” He smiles at Hermione, who takes his hand again. 

“I’m so glad we ran into each other,” Hermione says. 

“Thank you,” Malfoy says, his voice softened with a sincerity Harry has never heard before. “For everything.” 

“Of course,” Hermione replies, her voice heartbreakingly fragile. She pulls Malfoy into another hug. “Text me if you need anything, okay?” 

Malfoy squeezes her waist, pulling back and nodding. “I will.” He looks at Harry and says, “It was good to see you, Harry.” 

Harry stares at Malfoy making his way across the cafe, setting his cup on an abandoned table, and sliding into his peacoat before he exits. A bitter wind blows inside and Harry shivers as the door closes with a clatter.

“So,” Hermione begins, a hint of amusement in her voice. “What was that all about?”

Harry peers through the large glass doors of the cafe as Malfoy crosses the street, fading into the crowd. It’s then that Harry has the wild realisation that Malfoy didn’t call him by his surname.

**  
**-May 2018-**  
**

  
The treatments begin with urgency.

Astoria spends three days a week at St Mungo’s to help test and build up her immunity as the Healers make their decisions. They agree on a regulated schedule of blood transfusions to attack the aggressive nature of the blood curse. Despite the amount of research he’s done, Draco is still frightened as they attach thin tubes to Astoria’s forearms, blood leaving her body to circulate into a monstrosity of a machine as it cleanses and churns her blood back into her body. 

Draco finds that the majority of their visits entail them waiting all day. Some days they spend most of their time quietly waiting in the hospital room before Astoria is poked, examined, and assessed, all while answering the same questions over and over again. On other days, Draco watches her go through exams that are excruciating, and he’s nearly hysterical as she cries out when the Healers need to pierce her fragile hips with long needles to draw bone marrow for testing. 

He hates having to spend long hours waiting for the Healers to do their diagnostics as Astoria sleeps, too exhausted after each procedure to stay awake. The days bleed into one another as they wait for these tests and diagnostic results, lately only proving the slow degradation of her vitals because of the curse. But Astoria is always in good spirits when she wakes, so reassuring and optimistic in the face of Draco’s heavy heart and frayed nerves. He can’t help but consider that soon enough everything will turn upside down, that she will fall into a coma again, that he’ll have to accept that the Healers really have no clue what they’re doing at all. He fears waking up one day with her gone. 

At night Draco dreams about her death. 

He sees Astoria standing at the top of the bluff near their home, the same bluff they warded Scorpius from when he was a toddler. She’s dressed in her wedding gown, the white lace skirt wildly whipping against her legs, her feet bare. The large expanse of chaotic ocean is below her, so volatile, the waves crashing violently against the jagged rocks below. She’s on the edge, arms spread wide, her head tilted towards a stormy sky. Her sacrifice. Draco screams. He screams and screams and screams. His voice hoarse as he begs her not to go. But she turns, and smiles, her expression open. 

Then she falls, her frail body hitting the ground, crumbling to ash right before Draco’s eyes.

He jolts awake with a cry, his skin cold and slick with sweat as he draws his knees to his chest. As he wraps his arms around his knees to quell his shaking body, he sobs. The sound is jagged and loud, and it wakes Astoria, her comforting hand on his shoulder coaxing him back to reality. 

Sometimes he doesn’t know that he’s thrashing and screaming until Astoria tries to help him. At times, her panicked tones are futile in their ability to bring him back to reality. She learned the hard way during nights when Draco continued to wail and run away from her arms, caught in his feverish nightmare to the point that he almost rushes out of the bedroom before he becomes cognizant of his own surroundings. Now she uses soft touch, and a calming voice that’s honey sweet and sleep slurred to coax Draco to her, assuring him she will never truly leave. 

They sit and wait in yet another exam room, the walls the same white walls, the sounds the same whirls and beeps of all the others. They wait for another diagnostic test, and another dose of some clear-coloured concoction dripping through a Muggle IV. Draco’s exhaustion consumes him, having had another night of unrest. His eyelids grow heavy and he can’t help but drift off. Astoria reaches over to him and clasps his hand, her thumb brushing gentle strokes over his knuckles. 

He awakens to the sound of laughter. Blinking blearily into consciousness, Draco sees Hermione sitting next to Astoria who is propped upright against her pillows, her animated hands waving in front of her. Her expression is bright despite the dark circles under her eyes, her laughter booming as it fills all corners of the room.

“I think he’s scared some trainees,” Hermione says, amused. “Which I can’t blame him. They can be incredibly frustrating.” 

“Did he give The Face?” Astoria asks, her eyes glinting as her cheeks swell with her smile. “He gave The Face, didn’t he?” Hermione tilts her head back and laughs, bright and loud. They’re talking about him. 

“I’ll have you know your trainee Healers are idiots,” Draco says in a sleep-groggy voice, adjusting in his chair. He tilts his head and hears a happy pop, relief overcoming the ache as he fixes a challenging gaze on Hermione. “Whenever you ask one of your underlings a simple question, they just give a generic answer.”

“They’re still learning,” Hermione says, sitting straighter in her seat. “They don’t want to commit to an answer without discussing it with the consultant Healer.” 

“Then I have nothing to say to them,” Draco grouses, rubbing his eyes. His body aches from exhaustion more than it did before falling asleep. He didn’t dream this time, and Draco is thankful for small mercies. “You can have them subject some other victim to their uselessness.”

“Draco gets grumpy when he doesn’t sleep well,” Astoria explains, rolling her eyes. “You’ll probably get The Face any moment now.”

“I am not grumpy,” Draco says. “I just don’t have patience for simpletons.” 

“Oh yes, The Face is coming soon,” Astoria says with a satisfying sigh and knowing nod. “Just wait, you’ll have a trainee show up any moment—”

The door opens. A trainee Healer enters the room with trepidation, his shoulders drawn to his ears as Draco scowls at the young wizard. Hermione openly laughs again, her hand resting on her stomach. 

“Oh my god, you’re by far my favourite patient,” Hermione declares as the trainee hands her a folder and leaves as soon as possible. 

Astoria’s smile is sheepish. “Well, if we will be spending all this time together, I figured at the very least we could be friends.” 

Hermione’s surprise is so obvious, her jaw drops. Draco hides his smile behind his hand. This is what he admires most about Astoria, her personality is so vibrant that she could make friends with a feral hippogriff, or in this case, one Hermione Granger-Weasley. No matter where they go, whether it be a passing afternoon in town or a hospital room, everyone loves her. She treats everyone with the same excitement she would her best friend. 

Astoria doesn’t miss the surprise on Hermione’s face. “Is this against the Healer-Patient relationship principles? It’d be a shame if it was.” 

“Oh, um, n-no, it’s not,” Hermione stumbles, her hands smoothing down the wrinkles of her lime green robes in her lap. “It’s just...” She clears her throat and waits to regain her composure, “unexpected.”

“I have that effect on people,” Astoria says dryly with a sage nod and a teasing smile on her lips. “You should’ve seen what I had to do to win this one over,” Her shoulder jerks towards Draco. “I practically did a mating dance.” 

Hermione giggles. “Sounds familiar. My husband was utterly clueless.” 

“I was not clueless,” Draco says. “I was merely...distracted.” 

“Yeah, so distracted to not see how much I fancied you,” Astoria says, smiling wide at Draco. His heart skips a beat, the familiar spread of adoration and love rushing through him as he meets Astoria’s playful gaze. 

Hermione stands from her seat with a small stretch and walks to the IV to look at the bag hanging from the hook. “You’re almost finished. I’m going to issue one more test and then you’re free to leave,” Hermione says, turning to cross the room towards the door.

“Hey, Hermione?” Astoria says, making Hermione pause and face her. “I meant it. About being friends.” 

Hermione smiles as she glances at Draco and back to Astoria. “Yes. I think that would be lovely.” 

Later, back at the house, Draco opens all the windows to let in the cool breeze coming off the water. Its familiar scent surrounds them in the living room as they sit together in the middle of the sofa. Draco sets his book down and looks at Astoria sprawled over his lap, her own book propped open. Her head rests on his thighs, her dark hair spilling over his knee, her breathing slow and measured. A warm yellow-gold silhouettes her as the sun begins to set and she looks ethereal. A familiar tug pulls at his heart as he stares down at her. It’s similar to what he experienced the moment he knew he was in love with her, only this time, it’s grander. Wilder. It’s overwhelming and swells in him with a passion and devotion that’s been years in the making. It’s so intense he loses his breath. 

“I love you,” he whispers. Astoria quirks a soft smile, eyes focused on her book. She reaches for Draco’s hand, pulls it up to her lips, and kisses his fingers with a gentle caress. 

That night Draco dreams. 

He dreams of fields of lavender, of lying with the sun on his back. He dreams of Astoria’s smile and her laugh, a blurry glow of light catching on her hair. He dreams of her delicate touch, the softness of her mouth, the warmth of her body. 

This time she lives.

**  
**-December 2019-**  
**

Draco stares at the parcel Astoria left for him on the table in the living room of Hermione and Ron’s home.

Their house is cosy, inviting, and a little dishevelled. There are stacks of books in every corner, empty cups sprawled over flat surfaces along with scrolls of parchment, the smell of nutmeg and clover permeating the air. In Draco’s lap he holds his cup of tea with both hands. There’s a fire blazing in the hearth. He doesn’t know what to say, having sent an abrupt text to Hermione two days before, asking to visit her, with the specific request for a time when she’d be home alone. 

“Is everything okay?” Hermione asks for the second time since he’s arrived. Draco nods, looking into the cup again. There’s a chip on the side and he focuses on it for a moment before he brushes the pad of his thumb over the dulled edge. 

“My mind Healer suggested I do this with someone I trusted,” Draco finally says, his voice hoarse. “And everyone else always looks so...I didn’t want to do it in front of Pansy or Daphne because—” He cuts off, and swallows hard. “It’s just too much. I don’t know what’s inside.” 

Draco had been avoiding opening the parcel. He worried it would contain some keepsake or letter or contain some item with a request to give it to someone. He didn’t know if he had the strength to fulfill that kind of request for Astoria, didn’t know if he could carry out her wishes the way she deserved. He didn’t know if he’d earned the right to do it for her.

Hermione knew about the parcels, and had suggested seeing a mind Healer when Draco rang her up one night after a horrible nightmare, desperate for someone to understand, someone that wasn’t his best friend or his sister-in-law. He needed someone who knew what he was going through, had been privy to the pain—a witness—but who wasn’t too close to his immediate circle. 

Hermione introduced him to Imogen, a middle-aged witch with a kind smile and perceptive mind. She asks hard-hitting questions even when Draco assumes they’re not at the right time, but they always seem to assemble his jumbled thoughts into complete sentences and nuanced realisations. She’s blunt when she needs to be, and complimentary when Draco least expects it. Hermione says Imogen specialises in grief counselling, specifically in working with people who have lost their partners. After the Second War and the Revitalisation Act, it seemed apropos for the wizarding community to catch up on the concept of therapy.

After Astoria’s death, Draco initially avoided seeing a mind Healer. He didn’t want to talk to a stranger about the anchoring despair of emotions. He had handled having the Dark Lord in his own home as a child and somehow survived that, and he reasoned with himself that surely he could survive the loss of Astoria with similar results. 

But when Draco woke that night gasping for air, with no one next to him to help him through the bone-chilling panic, he realised how ridiculous he was being. Voldemort had brought nothing but pain and fear, and through that he had to learn to compartmentalise pain to survive. Astoria had brought love and light, freeing Draco from hiding away his sorrows. To conflate surviving the Dark Lord with accepting the pain he feels from losing Astoria feels criminal and perverse. After that night, Draco decided to seek out help. Astoria would want that for him. She deserved it.

Draco had taken the parcel to his most recent session with Imogen. He recalls the conversation like a broken record as it urges him forward.

“What do you think is holding you back from opening the parcel?” Imogen asked. 

Draco shrugged. 

“Take a moment here, Draco.. What feelings come to mind when you think about opening it?” 

Draco closed his eyes and sighed. He didn’t want to understand the fears that gripped him every time he looked at the parcel. He didn’t want to imagine what opening it would mean, and how it contained some semblance of Astoria when she was alive. He didn’t want to envision his emotions if he opened it, making her death more real. He didn’t want to have to talk about how every night when he turned over to reach for her, he found nothing but open space, that when the sun cast through their windows in the morning, waking him, the house sounded hopeless and silent. He didn’t want to admit that he feels alone.

“Sadness. Anger,” Draco mumbled through gritted teeth.

“What else?”

“Regret.”

“Why?” Imogen asks, her quill scratching against the surface of her parchpad.

“Astoria and I used to argue about Scorpius,” Draco explains, his eyes focused on his hands balling into fists. “I thought she was easy on him. She would claim I was too blind to see I was reiterating the same ideologies as my parents.”

“How would that make you feel?”

“Embarrassed,” Draco says immediately. “It hurt to hear her say that.” His fingers pinch into the palms of his hand. “I didn’t want to be compared to them. I didn’t want to be associated with that. And now that she’s gone...if I open this parcel...” Draco started with a swallow, and a painful clench of his jaw, “...if I open it, it will be me acknowledging she’s really gone. And I don’t know if...if I’m ready to do what she needs of me. I don’t—I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Acceptance isn’t a sign of weakness, nor is it something to fear,” Imogen said softly. “Your regret is tied into your fear of embracing those facts. And Draco,” Imogen started, leaning forward. “You can still live with happiness and accept the loss of someone you love. Without regret.”

Imogen’s words rattled inside of Draco’s brain as he clutched onto the parcel, his name adorned with the loopy script of Astoria’s handwriting. 

“You also don’t have to go through this alone. You can open it here. Or you can open it with someone that you trust, someone that will help you through the meaning of its contents,” Imogen said.

Draco decided on Hermione.

He glances up as Hermione takes a seat in an armchair across from him.

“I want to open this here. With you.”

“Okay.” She shoots him an encouraging, patient smile, and he sets down his tea cup on the side table. 

Draco’s hands tremble as he opens the parcel, and when he reaches inside, he feels something small and smooth against his fingertips. He pulls it out and sees a mobile phone in his hand. 

“A mobile?” Draco asks uncomprehendingly, staring at Hermione’s confused expression. “She wanted to give me...a mobile?”

“Is there a note?” 

Draco reaches back inside to find a tiny slip of parchment. When he unfolds it, Astoria’s handwriting greets him.

>   
__  
My beloved Draco,
> 
> __
> 
> _Mon coeur. Mon cherie. Mon amour. I want you to have this so that you may find it a place of solitude and comfort. Listen to these playlists next to candlelight, during the glow of sunset, in your favourite cafe with a friend. Please continue to find love and happiness after I am gone. And never forget: mon âme trouveras la tienne. _
> 
> _J’taime,  
-A  
_

__  
As the paper falls from Draco’s hands, the sting behind his eyelids is overwhelming, and he squeezes them shut. His throat tightens and he pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes, but he can’t stop the tears from coming, can’t stop the uncomfortable heat flowing through his body, can’t stop the tickle in his nose or the choked sob that escapes from his lips.

Hermione sits beside him and places a tentative hand on his shoulder, followed by her arms, wrapping around him to pull him close. It unleashes something inside of Draco, her comforting embrace, and he wants so much for this to stop. He wants the pain to lessen just a little, because it’s been three bloody months and he’s stuck, his grief still as fresh and prickly as the day she died. 

“Fuck, when is this going to end?” Draco asks, pulling back from Hermione’s embrace. “I’m so sick of feeling like I’m breaking.”

Draco hates this, hates all the blubbering, hates all the naked emotions. He hates that he has to keep pulling himself apart to get to the core, hates that the grief is clawing inside of him, unrepentant. Hermione rubs small circles on his back, and Draco’s face heats with embarrassment for losing it in front of someone else, another person who has to witness him falling apart.

“I wish I had an answer for you,” Hermione says quietly. “Grief’s a rotten bitch.” 

Draco huffs a dry laugh. “You don’t say.” 

Hermione’s hand steadies. Silence stretches between them, save for the crackling embers in the hearth next to them. 

“Can I ask what the note said?”

Draco scrubs his face, and leans back on the sofa, closing his eyes. Fuck, he’s so exhausted. “Astoria used to make these...mixtapes. She’d put all this time and effort into them—she had these arbitrary rules about placement and flow.” A small smile finds its way across his lips as he recalls Astoria’s crazy rules. He ticks his fingers up as he recites the list. “Can’t have two of the same artists back to back; there should be a theme to the playlist; and, every song must have a purpose.” He turns his head to Hermione, his smile growing. “I used to think it was a waste of time until I really paid attention to what she was doing.”

“Sounds like she put a lot of effort into them.” 

“She would spend days looking for the perfect song,” Draco says, his gaze turning to the ceiling. “Always had multiple playlists in motion. She made arranging music feel like creating poetry.” 

Hermione stands, gathers up the tea cups, and walks into the kitchen. She returns with two glasses of wine, handing one to Draco. “Ron just got into the whole Google Home craze, and I was thinking,” Hermione says, eyes earnest and hopeful, “if you’re okay with it, maybe we could listen to some of it. Together.”

Draco looks down at the mobile in his other hand. This is what Astoria wanted for him, to share these moments with friends, with someone else, to create new memories. She wanted the spirit of her to always exist inside of him, and encourage him to continue to live. Maybe this is what Imogen means about acceptance and living without regret. 

“Yeah,” Draco says, using the back of his hand to swipe at his cheeks. “I’d like that.” 

He presses the power button and watches the mobile light up.

**\--**

  
Draco stays for several hours, listening to a playlist that Astoria had loaded onto an app on the mobile. After several glasses of wine, he discovers that Rose was the one who insisted on the new devices in the Granger-Weasley household after getting caught up in an internet whirlpool of information. Ron installed several throughout their house, allowing the music to surround them, so that whenever Hermione left the room, she could still hear everything.

Hermione explains to Draco that Ron is staying at the shop late because of the holiday season. “It’s really the busiest time of year besides the start of school, so he basically just works every day until Christmas. They can’t get enough people to help.” 

The track changes to something slower and sombre. A gentle guitar licks soothing and light. A man sings about capturing time in a bottle, about how there never seems to be enough, and how despite this inability to capsule eternity, those fragile increments, that there’s only one person they would move through existence with. 

Draco closes his eyes, the buzz of wine in his veins, listening to the gentle rhythm of the guitar, the dulcet crooning of the man’s voice. Astoria taught Draco to do this years ago when they had just come out of the war, when he was on probation after the trials with nothing to do but maintain the empty manor he stayed behind in. After his father’s reduced sentencing, his parents exiled to France, the tensions of the British wizarding world too enormous and hostile for them. Draco didn’t want to run away. 

So, that left him wandless, and without family. Astoria showed up, almost at random, standing at the end of the manor’s drive, walking through the gates in Muggle jeans and a shirt that exposed the pale expanse of her stomach. Draco was enthralled and confused at first, but now acknowledges that she was rebelling in her own way against her family, embracing a culture that she had been deprived of the choice to learn about. In those visits, she would bring CDs of her playlists and a large CD player, and sprawl out on an ornate rug in a random sitting room at Malfoy Manor. She’d close her eyes and listen with a concentrated furrow of her eyebrows as music blared from the speakers. 

Astoria did that right until the day she couldn’t get out of bed, too sick to move. Even when she was bedridden, Astoria insisted on listening to the wireless or through one of their Echo devices that Draco never fully mastered. In a lot of ways, Astoria loved Muggle culture more than he did, and embraced it with an insatiable desire. She gave that hunger to Scorpius, and Draco hopes he can continue to encourage that in their son, and boost that desire within himself. 

The song sounds melancholic and hopeful all at once. Draco tries to continue to listen to the words, but the music is so pretty, the man’s voice so soothing. He lets himself drift away, the warmth of wine and heat of the fire slipping him into a comfortable sleep.

**\--**

  
Draco awakens on the sofa, wrapped in a duvet, the hearth filled with smoldering embers. He hears murmuring in the kitchen and realises that he fell asleep on Ron and Hermione’s couch. Draco’s head throbs, his body aches, and his mouth desperately needs water.

He should get home. Draco knows he’s already overstayed his welcome, and he wasn’t intending on passing out on their sofa. Everything is so tiring, so overwhelming, and it twinges down to his muscles and bones. His whole body feels listless and without energy. 

Pulling the duvet off, he walks a careful path towards the kitchen towards the murmuring voices. When he gets closer, he can make out Ron and Hermione talking and stops. 

“—needs us,” Hermione says. 

“Yeah,” Ron says, his tone pained. “Fuck, every time I think about it, I can’t help but feel—”

“Yeah. I think...I think he’s lonely,” Hermione says softly. “He’s in that house with no one there, and that’s where she—”

“Right,” Ron murmurs. 

Merlin, they’re talking about him, and it’s obvious to Draco that they are concerned. But he can’t help believing he’s betraying something personal, and also knows acutely that, once again, his brokenness is affecting other people. Draco pads back to the sofa, sits down and pulls out his wand to start another fire. An unexpected chill splashes over Draco’s skin, and he shivers.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Hermione says, walking into the living room with a glass of water. 

“I was actually going,” Draco says, standing up too quick. The room tilts sideways, and Draco wobbles a little. Damn wine. 

“Draco,” Hermione says, concern colouring her voice. “You can stay a bit longer, it’s okay.”

Draco shakes his head, “No, it’s late and I don’t want to—”

“Mate,” Ron says, entering the living room. “Stay. It’s okay, we don’t mind.” 

Draco stays until Ron falls asleep on the sofa, a soft snore rising from the corner he’s curled up in, with Hermione almost on her way out too. She hugs Draco for a long time, her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, almost to the point of physical discomfort. 

When she pulls back, her eyes are shining against the dimming fire. “I never thought I’d be able to say this, but I’m glad we’re friends.”

Draco opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes. His speechlessness makes Hermione laugh, soft and happy. After rubbing his shaky hands on his trousers, Draco nods and says, “I’m glad you knew her.” 

When Draco Floos home, he falls onto his bed fully clothed and slips into a dreamless sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Rabbitfoot Record Store_ is an homage to a brilliant coffee shop/record store shop that my husband and I used to frequent all the time. It's pretty much long gone now, but the fact that they stayed open until midnight and had a drink literally called the "Jackrabbit" will always hold a special place in my heart.

**  
**-December 2019-**  
**

  
The Christmas shopping bustle is in full swing.

Primark, Superdrug, and all the small tourist shops have people spilling out onto the rain-slick pavements. The street’s crowded with impatient shoppers, the thick sweet scent of roasted chestnuts and toffee peanuts wafts through the air as several street-cart owners shout to draw in those passing by. 

Hermione has invited Harry to the Muggle side of London on Oxford Street, enticing him as the location is near his flat. 

It’s a grey and gloomy day with a misty rain. When the skies promise to shift to something more aggressive and heavy, they retreat to House of Fraser for convenience’s sake. The department store is packed to the gills with last-minute stressed shoppers in a frantic search for potential gifts, the queues a long line of exhausted, short-fused customers. Harry is eternally grateful for his Amazon Prime membership and the introduction of the Internet to the wizarding community. Thank God for Cyber Monday. 

Harry knows that Hermione’s insistence on getting together is supposed to be for his benefit. Since the announcement of Harry and Ginny’s divorce, the wizarding population has renewed their zealous spark of interest in Harry, making travelling into the wizarding public troublesome. Conversely, Harry’s lack of outside travel has drawn speculation that he is now morose and beside himself about the fact Ginny is no longer married to him, and rumours of the reason for their split are running rampant. 

“Are you going to the Ministry Christmas Party?” Hermione asks, picking up a bottle of perfume and giving it an experimental sniff.

“Probably not,” Harry answers with honesty. “I don’t want to dodge questions about Ginny not being there.” 

Neville did a fantastic job choosing proper publications and writers to run the information about the divorce. However, the gossip and speculation about Ginny and Harry’s relationship has not stopped, including by more nefarious quacks who have founded their whole career on citing wild theories about Harry’s personal life. Harry adores Ginny, and they have come to a place in their relationship where they still love each other, but consider one another close friends. He just wishes Rita Skeeter and her barmy lot could accept it. 

“I wonder when Skeeter will retire,” Harry says absently, walking past glass cases filled with cosmetics, creams, and perfumes. “She seems to have made a fortune making my life a living hell.”

“While that may be true,” Hermione says, picking up a small pot embossed with script writing about anti-aging, “there will always be someone in her wake to do the exact same thing.” She studies the label and wrinkles her nose before setting it back down. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Harry agrees. The cosmetic counter employees huddle around in their ensembles of sharp black blazers and pencil skirts, eager to speak to the patrons passing by. They look like vultures readying for the kill, Harry muses. He lifts a thick bristled brush and examines the price tag. “I do not understand why anyone would spend a small fortune on a—” He studies the label inscribed on the plastic case below it. “Contour brush? What the fuck is a contour brush?”

“Something that you will never begin to understand,” Hermione murmurs, bending over to look at organised table of designer handbags. She slants him a sardonic look. “Do you think all women wake up beautiful?”

Harry levels Hermione with an unimpressed stare. “I was married for almost fifteen years, Hermione, of course not.” Ginny’s side of their dual-sink countertop was organised and filled with so many creams and brushes it almost made Harry dizzy to consider what any of it was for. Her evening skin routine took almost twenty minutes to get through. Harry counts his day a huge success if he remembers where a stray hair tie is located without turning over the room. 

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” a young girl no more than twenty asks with so much saccharine enthusiasm Harry wonders if she’s being sarcastic. Her lips are bright red, accompanied by bold eye makeup that Harry spends too long staring at, curious how she managed her eyeliner into that sharp of a wing on the sides of her full eyelashes without the help of magic. 

“No, we’re just waiting for a friend,” Hermione replies with a courteous smile, turning to the purses again.

The employee walks away to continue her job of disturbing another potential customer about needing shopping assistance. It must be a nightmare to work in this kind of environment during the holidays. 

“Wait,” Harry says, realisation dawning on what Hermione told the store clerk. “Who else are we waiting for?”

Hermione looks up from her window shopping and says, “Oh, I asked Draco if he wanted to meet up. I figured it might help him to get out a little. Things have been…” She trails off with a shrug. “Thought maybe he’d need to get some shopping done.” 

Harry’s stomach does a small flip, and he tries to ignore the inexplicable excitement crawling up his spine. “Right. Yes,” he says, attempting nonchalance. He fidgets with his jacket and shoves his hands in his pockets. “How’s he been?”

Harry makes a studious effort to ignore the way Hermione fixes her stare at him before walking to another section of the store. “It’s hard to say,” she says as she pulls out her mobile, sliding a thumb across the screen before tapping on it to a staccato beat. “I don’t think he gives himself enough credit,” she adds as an afterthought. “Okay,” Hermione says, placing her mobile in her back pocket. “Let’s get out of here. Draco’s meeting us at a coffee shop up the road.”  
****

***.*.*.***

  
The rain has shifted from aggressive downpour to annoying icy drizzle, leaving slippery wet concrete and the beginnings of sludgy puddles in its wake. Draco fists his hands in the pockets of his peacoat when a blast of wind blows through the busy street, freezing his cheeks and nose.

Hermione texted the location of a small indie coffee shop to meet at. It appears to be in the middle of construction, with unfinished floors, exposed ceiling, and the seating area a haphazard mess of plywood with cushions on the top. Draco would be just as happy to go to a Pret.

Draco orders a cappuccino, watches as the barista creates an ornate flower with leaves on the surface with incredible ease, before he settles down in the furthest corner of the shop. He hasn’t spoken to Hermione since the night he opened the parcel. He’s been listening to the playlist non-stop, walking around the village with a pair of earbuds Astoria bought for herself a few months before her health took a turn. When he listens to the playlist, it’s as though Astoria has come back to life and she’s right there with Draco. Sometimes he thinks if he closes his eyes he can feel her fingers comb through his hair, sense the warmth of her breath against his cheek. 

The chime of the door breaks Draco’s thoughts as Hermione walks inside laughing, a bright red winter cap snug on her head. Behind her is Harry, leather-jacket-clad with a tight navy blue henley, his hair brushing against his chin. 

Draco almost drops his cup when he catches a view of Harry, who’s scarf wraps loose around his neck, leaving Draco to gape at every bit of exposed skin as he unravels it. He flicks his gaze to Hermione, who sees him and smiles, her steps quickening. 

“Have you been here long?” she asks, somewhat breathless as she unravels her scarf and sheds her coat. “The wind is insane out there.”

“Not long,” Draco says, his throat tight. He lifts his cup. “Just ordered this.”

Harry rests a hip against the counter, his arms crossed against his chest as he talks to a young barista while studying the menu. He rolls his neck back to adjust a few fallen strands of hair over his face and Draco’s mouth turns dry at the sight. The bloke behind the counter has on a flirtatious smile as he leans over the surface, but Harry is oblivious to it. Draco smirks into his cup as he takes a sip.

Hermione hums. Draco shoots a look at her, realising she’s been staring at Draco the entire time. Draco’s neck grows hot, his bulky jumper abruptly too tight. Hermione grins and looks over at Harry waiting at the end of the counter for his order. 

“How’ve you been?” Hermione asks, her expression cheerful. Having known Hermione for some time, Draco can recognise when she’s not going to press for information, and is thankful for her discretion. He keeps his gaze on Harry for a bit longer, trailing over the jut of his hip and how his leather jacket is scrunched to his elbows. It makes Draco’s stomach do things he didn’t think were humanly possible. 

“Fine,” he says, chancing a glance at Hermione. When she raises an eyebrow, his shoulders deflate a little and adds, “I’m still seeing Imogen weekly, but there’s nothing new to report.”

Hermione reaches over and gives Draco’s arm a familiar squeeze. “I’m glad you came today.”

Imogen has been full of suggestions for Draco, one of them being to visit family and friends more often. Leaving the house became quite unbearable after the funeral. Draco remained inside his home for days, only venturing out when he needed to get food from Tesco or welcoming Elisabeth when she came calling, demanding that they go for a walk to “get fresh air”. 

It was hard when all Draco wanted to do was listen to Astoria’s playlist sprawled out on the old hardwood floors that she demanded they keep when they moved in. It was a fun journey trying to find all the meanings and hidden nuances of her thought process behind each song. Draco wanted to believe that he was communicating with her through this wondrous gift, this blessing that she left behind for him. It reminded him of dark evenings long ago, his head in her lap as she stroked a soothing hand through his hair while they listened to the soft tones of a newly discovered band.

He never wanted to forget a single moment of it. Draco spent too many hours a daydreaming about Astoria. He dreamt about her sitting at her small writing desk concentrating on choosing the right songs on their Muggle computer, carefully studying endless songs, finding the right one that struck her, deliberating its placement in each playlist she ultimately gave him. He even imagined her at a Muggle cafe, poring over a laptop or her mobile, waiting and waiting until the right beat filled her ears, until that perfect lyric made her heart flutter faster. 

“Where are we going to next?” Harry asks as he settles beside Draco, reaching across the table to hand Hermione her drink. Draco startles, his thoughts getting the best of him and trailing off to edges unknown. He distracts himself with his cup, not focusing on the way Harry smells just like the earth after a hard rain or what the warmth of Harry’s thigh pressed against his does to Draco’s nerves.

“I need to go to the Apple store.” Hermione sighs, her eyes rolling. “I have to get Hugo a new iPad. He used his last one so aggressively that now I have to put industrial strength protection spells on the next one to make sure it’s essentially hex-proof.”

“I’m shocked you didn’t do that to the first one,” Draco says. It was the first thing he did when he got Scorpius his first iPad years ago. The electronic cost a pretty knut even with the exchange rate being decent at the time. 

“Oh, I did,” Hermione says with a sip of her coffee. “But then Rose discovered a way to stick it to the ceiling of his bedroom after a petty sibling row to the point that the only way it was able to come down was through an intense Incendio. Needless to say it was—”

“—Completely FUBAR,” Harry finishes.

Draco furrows his eyebrows. “FUBAR?”

“Fucked up beyond any repair,” Harry states, face solemn. “Literally. A Hermione level Reparo couldn’t even get it to work again.” 

“I wonder where Rose learned that trick from,” Hermione says, glaring at Harry while taking another elegant sip of her coffee.

Draco watches Harry attempt to hide his sheepish grin in his own drink. “Yeah, not Jamie’s best moment, that,” he mutters. Draco even catches a hint of pink across Harry’s cheekbones. He is all of a sudden grateful that Scorpius doesn’t have any siblings. 

“What about you?” Harry says to Draco. 

“Er,” Draco begins, looking between Hermione and Harry. He fidgets in his seat and adjusts the jacket in his lap. “I have a place I need to go to but it’s...not around here.”

“Oh,” Hermione says with a frown. “I didn’t mean to—”

Draco raises a hand to stop her. “You didn’t. Pansy and Daphne live nearby. I was overdue a visit with them. It’s been helpful for me to get out.” 

And it was helpful for Draco. Pansy and Daphne settled on a date for their wedding after a long engagement, and all they could talk about was venues, florists, and honeymoon locations. Draco was over-the-moon happy for them, and honoured that he would be a part of the wedding party. He wanted to do everything he could to be there for two of his best friends, but he found it hard to rally the happiness he would have if circumstances were different. They were more than understanding, but Draco hated being the deflated balloon in the room. 

It would’ve been so much easier if Astoria was still here. She was thrilled when Pansy and Daphne announced their engagement, going as far as appointing herself in charge of throwing an intimate but lavish party at Draco and Astoria’s home. Small tables filled the garden, surrounded by silver chiavari chairs and pink champagne lace tablecloths. The centres of the tables were adorned with vintage candelabras and Astoria had strewn an abundance of pink peonies and white hydrangeas (Pansy and Daphne’s favorite flowers) on every possible surface.

The couple were thrilled and overwhelmed with the special touch that Astoria put into the whole event. Daphne cried the moment she set foot in the garden, eyes shining under the hanging fairy lights. Astoria even charmed them to glitter all night. 

Draco’s chest tightens at the memory of it all, yet another feeling of loss at the realisation that she’ll never get to see the moment she dreamed for her sister. He clears his throat, hoping to banish the sinking weight in his stomach. 

“Draco?” Hermione says, and he looks over at her concerned eyes. “Did you hear what I asked you?” 

“No, sorry,” he says, his voice uneven. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him too, but doesn’t move, unable to bear the sight of seeing any sympathy there. 

“Why don’t we get out of here,” Harry suggests. He reaches for his scarf, wrapping it around his neck. 

“Yeah,” Draco says, standing to pull his jacket back on. He tries to ignore the shaking of his hands. 

They walk to their next stop in welcomed companionable silence. Oxford Street is decorated for Christmas, the shop windows adorned in a variety of lights, moving toy trains, and tinsel. The soft jingles of holiday music float in the air as patrons enter and exit the shops along the path. A chilled wind edges to an almost unbearable temperature as the afternoon bleeds into the evening, and Draco wishes he’d brought his gloves. 

“Jesus fuck, it’s cold,” Harry mutters, a white cloudy mist escaping his lips. His nose and cheeks are flushed, and Draco grits his teeth hard to keep from staring like some moonstruck tween. 

“We’re almost there,” Hermione says with a voice of unbridled determination. The click of her boots create a pleasing sound against the pavement. 

“At least it’s not raining anymore,” Draco offers. “Otherwise I would’ve buggered off from this little escapade.” 

“Good to know your commitment to the cause,” Harry teases, a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. 

“When it comes to London rain, it’s every man for himself,” Draco declares. 

“Okay, stop your whinging, we’re here,” Hermione says, as they approach the large building. Draco always loved this building, from the tall arched windows exposing everything inside like a snow globe, to the symmetrical architecture. 

When Pansy and Daphne first moved into their flat in Mayfair, Draco walked around the winding roads, studying the buildings and learning new pathways to commit to memory. It was almost two years after the trials, and Draco was still soaking in this new world that Astoria had introduced him to, and it left him overstimulated yet thrilled for more. 

The blissful warmth that blankets everyone as they step inside is a welcome relief, and Draco removes his scarf, lest he overheat. Several employees are running around in bright red shirts, answering questions and helping demanding customers. The cacophony of voices echoing through the wide-open space makes Draco nerves frazzled. 

He retreats to a corner. 

Harry trails behind, finding a corner to lean into. Customers zoom by frantically, trying to make their last-minute purchases. Harry nods towards Hermione and says, “That poor sales guy better not tell Hermione that they’re out of whatever she wants, or they’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I’m sure,” Draco says, watching as Hermione, with a look of stern seriousness on her face he has witnessed many times in a professional capacity, talks to a young bloke. The kid is young, barely an adult, and gives his undivided attention to her as she talks wildly with her hands. He then leads her over to the iPads, gesticulating with excitement that would rival a baby crup. 

“So, where do you have to go after this?” Harry asks, his voice rumbling close to Draco’s ear. The earthy scent assaults Draco’s senses, and he crosses his arms to distract himself. 

“Um,” Draco starts, and gives his lips a nervous lick. This is utter madness. He shouldn’t be acting like this. A wave of guilt crashes over him for his body being so immoral. Astoria isn’t gone but a couple of months and he’s acting like a wound-up teenager. Draco takes a deep breath. “It’s a record store in Camden.” Draco chances a glance at Harry, his eyes too green under the bright light. “To get some records.”

“Yes, that is the primary function of a record store,” Harry teases as he looks out into the throngs of people. He shifts to rest his head against the wall, jutting his hips out and crossing an ankle over the other. Draco attempts with valiant effort to focus on a large group entering the building, their bodies almost toppling over each other like a plague of locusts.

“Want to come with?” Draco asks, attempting to sound noncommittal and sensing he just missed the mark. He doesn’t look at Harry, but Draco can see out of the corner of his eye Harry turning towards him.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers. “I’d like that.”

**  
**-July 2018-**  
**

  
Harry taps his foot at a rapid pace as he waits for the train at Platform 9¾ with Lily next to him. Her focus isn’t on her brothers coming home; she’s too occupied with her new tablet, a birthday gift she received a month before from Ron and Hermione. Other parents begin to line up for their children, jostling for position on the platform, a thrum of excitement blistering in the air.

It’s the first weekend that all Harry’s children will stay at his new flat. 

It took Harry close to two months to secure the flat in Hampstead. He called in a favour from Neville, who was able to set him up with a month-to-month rental. This was despite several insistent offers from Ron and Hermione for him to stay at their home. Harry knew he needed to take his time finding the right place, and boarding in one of his godchildren’s bedrooms would only create more pressure. 

He ended up using a Muggle estate agent with Hermione’s help (someone that was a patient at her parents’ dental office) and Harry spent endless hours on the weekends traipsing throughout London looking for a proper place to call home. After several weekends of hard nos—not enough rooms; not enough living room space; the kitchen was too small; the neighborhood not kid-friendly enough—Harry found the perfect location, and Hampstead was it. 

Before he even signed the papers, Hermione demanded that she come by and inspect the flat to give it a final seal of approval. She argued that it was only for a second pair of eyes, but Harry knew she wanted to make sure he wasn’t making any rash decisions. 

“It’s perfect,” she said with a twirl around the living room. “Does it feel like yours?”

Harry looked around at the fresh paint on the walls, the brand-new hardwood floors, the large balcony garden stretching over the city. The sun was shining and beautiful, beating against the grey pavers, the green bushes dancing with the wind. 

“Yes,” Harry said. And he meant it. 

“Then you should get it,” Hermione replied with a happy smile. And just like that, Hampstead became his new neighbourhood.

He hopes that the kids will love it as much as he does. He wants to show them around the beautiful downtown square, take them through Flask Walk to look at all the off the path shops, possibly even show them local Muggle museums and heritage sites like the Freud Museum or Keats House. 

Harry doesn’t want them to think that anything is different just because he and Ginny have separated. 

In the end, the kids just ask to sit in front of the telly or play with their tech, and Harry is okay with that. It’s the summer hols and he knows they want to relax and indulge in all the things they weren’t able to during the school year. They go walking around a nearby park, eat fish and chips at a local restaurant, and visit the farmers’ market to gather supplies for dinner. Jamie and Al help with a surprising amount of enthusiasm, while Lily whinges about it taking too long. 

At night when the flat is quiet, and the kids are fast asleep from their busy days, Harry stares at the ceiling and listens to the faint echo of the city alone.

**\--**

  
The visit is over too soon. A nervous thrum pulses through Harry’s veins as everyone gathers their bags and waits for Ginny to Floo. He hasn’t spoken to her aside from informing her about the new flat and coordinating the children’s visitation. Even that was through text. He hopes it’ll be okay.

“How much longer until Mummy gets here?” Lily asks, turning her attention away from a random Netflix series that Jamie and Al found, which was Lily approved, a rare blessing that Harry does not take for granted.

“I don’t know, love,” Harry says, looking down at his watch. “Not much longer.”

“The longer it takes for Mum to get here, the longer we have to watch this show,” Jamie exclaims from the other side of the couch. “This telly is huge!”

“You make it seem as if Mum doesn’t let you watch telly whenever you want,” Harry says, amused.

“She’s not a big fan of Voltron,” Al murmurs from his seat on the floor, distracted by his mobile. His fingers echo with a loud tap as he types on the screen before looking up at Harry. “Which doesn’t make any _sense_.”

Harry laughs. “I don’t think she’s a big telly fan.”

“Nah, she loves Shetland. Which is appalling,” Jamie says, his freckled nose wrinkling in distaste. 

Albus snorts. “Well, you could watch Netflix on your laptop if you weren’t an idiot and didn’t get caught watching p—” 

“Oi!” Jamie cries. 

The fireplace roars and they look up as Ginny walks through the bright green flames. Her hair is in a messy plait, which falls over her shoulder as she brushes dust off her jeans and old Harpies t-shirt. She looks around the room and smiles widely at her children. 

“Did you lot miss me?” 

Lily abandons her spot curled up next to Harry and bounds over to Ginny in glee, her arms wrapping around her waist. Jamie and Al continue to give each other the death stare, and when Ginny raises an eyebrow at Harry, all he can do is shrug. 

“You’re gonna have to ask them about it,” he says, getting up from the sofa and turning off the telly. When the kids groan in exasperation, Harry tells them, “Go gather your things from your bedroom.” 

Harry and Ginny are alone in the living room. 

Ginny walks to the doors leading to the balcony garden. White-bright sunshine soaks into the concrete, the sky a crisp blue. Her hair shines against the light, her face half-silhouetted in shadow. 

“This is nice,” she says, looking out into the city below. 

Harry runs a fingertip along the edge of the mantel. “It took longer to find it than I expected.”

“Do you like it here?” Ginny asks.

“Sure.”

Ginny is silent for a lingering moment before she turns to him, the lines around her mouth tight before she says, “Hermione said when you showed it to her it was the happiest she’d seen you in a long time.”

Harry didn’t want to admit to Ginny that being in a flat like this was what he really wanted after the war. That all he’d wanted was to get away from everything that reminded him of the loss and abandonment from anyone who ever loved him. Even after Ginny repaired Grimmauld Place, Harry always felt uneasy, and unsettled inside its walls. It never became home. 

“I like it,” Harry concedes. “It feels...right.” 

Ginny sighs softly, her arms wrapping around her waist as she nods. “That’s good. You deserve that.” They stand once more in silence for a few beats, and it makes Harry’s nerves fray

“Hey, do you think—”

“I should go check on—”

They both stop, waiting for the other to speak. After several awkward moments pass, Ginny tears her gaze away from him and makes her way towards the hallway. “I’m gonna check on them. I’m pretty sure they’re sneaking in more screen time.” 

He lets her go.

He’s unsure of what to do next, so he flops back onto the couch, his arms crossing against his chest as he turns over their interaction. He should have stopped her. He should have told her that he misses her, that he misses the evenings with the family, that he misses being able to come home to a house brimming with energy and excitement of the day. He doesn’t want this tension, doesn’t want to keep exchanging the awkward texts. He doesn’t want this to be his life now. He’s pulled from his thoughts as Lily comes running into the living room first, her bag strapped across her shoulder. She clutches her tablet, her prized possession, to her chest.

“All set?” Harry asks, sitting up straighter. She nods. 

“Al won’t stop texting Scorpius,” she says in an exasperated voice that sounds like a replica of Ginny’s. Harry bites back a smile. She’s starting to get into the pre-teen attitude, trying to figure out her way in the world. It drives Ginny mental. 

“Al texts him often, then?” Harry asks, trying to sound casual. 

Lily looks at him as though he’s barmy. “Of course he does, Dad. They’re best mates.”

“His _only_ mate, really,” Jamie says as he enters the living room, his bag hanging off his shoulder. “They do talk constantly, though. Mum has to yell at Al to get off his mobile all the time. I wonder why she doesn’t take _his_ mobile away.”

Ginny walks into the room then, Al beside her, and replies, “Because he doesn’t get viruses on his mobile for looking up—”

“Okay, Mum!” Jamie says cutting her off loudly, a hand flapping wildly as his cheeks flush. 

“You’ll get it back when it’s fixed,” Ginny promises with a cheeky grin as she squeezes James’s shoulder. She grabs a handful of Floo powder from the ornate glass-blown bowl Luna gave Harry as a housewarming gift. She had acquired it on one of her archeological digs in the Venetian Lagoon while searching for a random sea creature, and Harry wouldn’t be able to pronounce the creature’s name even under Veritaserum. 

“Bye Dad!” Lily says, quickly hugging Harry about the waist before dashing into the bright green flames. 

“Later Dad,” Jamie says, putting his earbuds into his ears and leaving. 

Albus then shuffles towards Harry, his bag dragging behind him on the ground, one of the arm-straps broken. Harry holds in a chuckle as he realises that Albus is trying to affect an air of adolescent indifference. The feeling fades, however, when Albus hands him a framed family photo. “You don’t have any photos on the mantelpiece,” he explains, not meeting Harry’s surprised expression. “I, er, asked Mum to bring this for you.” 

Harry looks down at the picture. It was taken two summers ago during Lily’s birthday party at the Burrow. Molly insisted on a photo with her new Muggle camera, and the kids had piled on top of Harry, laughing wildly and poking at him until he laughed back. Harry’s face is obscured, but the warmth and happiness of that day bleeds through the frame. His chest tightens. 

“Thank you, Al,” he says softly, reaching out to wrap Albus into a tight hug. Albus huffs against his chest and Harry chuckles before releasing him, a hand ruffling his wild black hair with a grin. Albus grumbles, but Harry catches the smile he’s trying to hide as he ducks into the flames. Harry places the frame on the mantel and takes a step back, fondly observing the single picture on the wide space. It’s perfect. 

“I think he worries about you,” Ginny says in a quiet voice, sidling up beside him. “We all do.”

Harry stares at the photo in the frame, memories flooding him. That summer Lily had insisted on wearing one of Ginny’s Harpies jerseys, and even though she tripped over it all day, she had been so excited to wear it. They bought her a riding broom soon after, her excitement to ‘be like Mummy’ infectious. Harry and Ginny showed her all the safety precautions she needed and James showed her the basic steps. By the end of the day she was able to mount her broom and easily execute lazy upside-down loops around the garden. 

The skies were clear that day, Harry remembers. It was a day filled with laughter, too-sweet cake, and excitement. The kids crashed before nine and Molly insisted they stay the night. Harry and Ginny went back to Grimmauld Place and sat in the back garden in the cool summer night with a couple of beers, reflecting on the day.

“It looks nice here,” Ginny murmurs, bringing Harry back to the present. 

“Yeah, it does.”

“If you want more of these,” Ginny says, pointing to the photo, “just let us know. We can bring some over.”

Harry looks at Ginny, the sincerity clear in her eyes. He swallows, a sudden tightness in his throat easing. “Thanks, Gin.”

“You’re welcome,” she responds, stepping towards the now-dying embers in his fireplace. When she grabs the Floo powder, she pauses, her shoulders taut before they relax and she shoots Harry a small smile over her shoulder. 

“Well done, Harry,” she says before tossing the Floo powder onto the flames and disappearing.

Harry shoves his hands into the front of his pockets, a deep sigh escaping him as he stares at the picture once more before exiting the living room. 

He feels as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

**  
**-December 2019-**  
**

Draco side-alongs Harry to an alleyway between two buildings, right next to a skip filled with cardboard boxes. A raucous roar of cars, music, and throngs of people reverberates off the brick walls, and Harry spins around to get his bearings.

“Where are we?” Harry asks. 

“Camden Lock,” Draco answers. “Ever been here before?” Harry shakes his head and Draco’s smile grows. “Oh, you’re in for an experience.” 

Draco leads them down the end of the alleyway, making a sharp right onto the busy pavement. Harry’s vision is bombarded with varying street vendors, and bright-coloured storefronts, all mismatched and haphazardly placed. Hordes of people crowd the pavements, all different types from hipster kids to oblivious tourists attempting to guide their way through the shops. 

“This is incredible,” Harry murmurs as they began drawing closer to the faded, teal-coloured overpass, bright goldenrod block letters yelling ‘CAMDEN LOCK’ centred against graffiti. 

“Are you sure Hermione was okay with this?” Draco asks over his shoulder, dodging a tourist couple who have stopped in the middle of the pavement with graceful deftness. Harry almost collides into Draco’s back but misses, grabbing for his arm to steady himself. 

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Harry yells as they pass another outdoor vendor, a table filled with calendars and used books, a boombox blaring jazz on a barstool. A man sits in a metal chair, several blankets wrapped tight around his body. 

They reach a crossing and wait for the green man. Cars pack the street, all but touching bumper to bumper. The smell of exhaust fumes fills Harry’s nose, thick and acrid. “She’ll be there for at least another hour if she has it her way. That poor kid.”

What Harry doesn’t tell Draco about is the amused look on Hermione’s face when he told her he’d been invited to go with Draco on this excursion. After giving Harry her famous knowing look, Hermione had glanced over his shoulder at Draco, who was busy watching the hordes of customers in the busy shop. Harry tried to come up with a quick explanation, something to prove that it was just a friendly invite, nothing more. 

Instead, Hermione looked back to Harry and said, “Of course. I’ve got to get home after this anyway, Ron will be waiting for me. We don’t get to see each other a lot because he’s been working non-stop at the moment.” She placed a warm hand on Harry’s arm and nodded. “Go. It’ll be fun..”

At the time, Harry didn’t know what she meant, but he kissed her cheek with the promise he’d text her later. 

Now, Harry stands in the middle of an unexplored area of London, the shiver of winter settling down into his bones. Draco adjusts the collar of his navy blue peacoat to cover his neck and Harry steals another glance at Draco’s comfortable stance, the right heel of his foot turned up, revealing an argyle-socked ankle in his brown brogues. He looks so relaxed and, surprisingly, happy. 

Draco points a long finger to a building on the other side of the crossing. “We’re going over there.”

A beeping indicates the pedestrian crossing signal has changed. They walk amidst a sea of strangers, and Harry relishes the anonymity of it all: no one cares about the failure of his marriage, about his current relationship status, about his future. Here and now, on this pavement, walking with Draco during the evening’s birth, he is just another blank face in the crowd. 

The record shop is a small space with a large electric blue-and-white sign declaring Rabbitfoot Record Store over the black awning. Large windows showcase a haphazard display of turntables lined along the bottom of the window frame, and a phonograph sits at random in the corner; records hang from clear twine like clumsily placed ornaments, twirling at random intervals and bumping into each other; a wooden chair covered in band stickers props up a letter board that reads, “vinyl is forever!”

Draco stops in front of the door, peering over his shoulder, a sly smile tilting on his lips. “Going to stand out in the cold all night, Potter?” 

The use of Harry’s last name jolts him like a bee sting, achy and acidic, and his chest clenches in disapproval. He knows that Draco is teasing, but Harry hasn’t heard Draco refer to him by his last name since that day in the coffee shop a few weeks before. He had hoped maybe... 

Harry tucks his hands farther into the pockets of his jacket and nods, walking past Draco without another word. 

A salt-and-pepper middle-aged bloke donned in a red oversized jumper sits behind the counter. His face is ruddy, knob-like nose currently tucked within a book as he licks his index finger to flip a page, an easy air of carelessness about him. Beside him sit wire racks holding keychains and stickers. Stacks of records cover most of the countertop, a price tag gun settled precariously on top of a heavily stickered till. Harry does a turn around the shop, taking in rows of vinyl records spanning across the cramped store in wooden display cases, a small sectioned-off area dedicated to CDs, the spaces between them tight and impossible to fit between. The walls host posters of various artists, from Manchester Orchestra to Cobra Starship.

Draco clears his throat loudly once he approaches the till, the older man snapping his head up of out of his reverie, a scowl on his face. It melts away into a wide smile in an instant. “Draco!” the man cries, hopping off the stool, his arms wrapping Draco in a long hug. “Draco! Ça fait un baille! Comment vas-tu?” 

Harry watches as Draco gives a fond squeeze to the other man’s left shoulder. “Ça va bien. Juste très pris.” The older man grins.

“Et Astoria? Comment va-t-elle?” he asks, voice vibrating with excitement. 

Harry flinches at the stiffening of Draco’s shoulders, the man’s eyes widening perceptibly before pulling Draco into another hug. Harry might not know what they’re saying in French, but he heard Astoria’s name and knows what has been exchanged. He takes a step back, his hands reaching out to touch a Smiths album, and busying himself with reading the discography to give Draco his moment. 

“Oh je suis désolé, mon ami,” the man whispers with reverence, his voice hoarse. Harry glances up as the older man sighs and says, “Je ne savais—”

Draco shakes his head. “Ce n'est pas grave. Tu ne savais pas.” 

Harry busies himself with browsing the narrow aisles. The heartbroken look on Draco’s face transports him back to that day near the sea, when they watched the sunset together. That cool veil that Draco keeps up with such ease had vanished that day, and seeing pain and vulnerable space open up again does something to Harry’s insides. 

He studies the row of Ns, flipping through the vinyls as if he’s an interested customer and not someone who is making an active effort to eavesdrop. A silence blankets the shop, and a new song turns on above them. 

“So, who is this?” The man’s voice is light and silky, his accent sharpening the ends of his words. Harry glances up to see Draco and the stranger staring at him. “A friend?” he asks, his brows furrowing over piercing blue eyes.

“Eh, on va dire ça comme ça,” Draco replies with a small smile and an absent wave of his hand. “I wanted to show him your shop.” Draco then glances over his shoulder at Harry. ”Harry, this is Jean-Michel. Jean-Michel, Harry.” 

“Music lover?” Jean-Michel inquires when Harry makes his way towards him, reaching over the counter to shake Jean-Michel’s hand. 

Harry chuckles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “In a manner of speaking.” 

“Then you are in the right place,” Jean-Michel says with a flourish, his arms opening wide. “Draco has been coming to my store for years.” 

“Is that so?” Harry asks, pressing his lips together to fight a smile before focusing on Draco silently arranging the pamphlets on the counter.

“Astoria and I used to come often when we lived around here,” Draco explains, his eyes still fixated on the perfectly arranged pamphlets. He rolls his shoulders back before tapping the edge of the counter and turning his gaze to Harry. “We lived right around the corner, actually,” he says quietly. 

“Yes, but then they moved to the seaside and now I hardly see him,” Jean-Michel teases. When Draco opens his mouth to protest, Jean-Michel raises a hand. “I know why, mon ami, I know why. You don’t have to explain it to me, d’accord? Estelle and I have missed you, that’s all.” 

Jean-Michel’s smile is infectious, brimming with love and admiration. Harry finds himself grinning as Jean-Michel stares at Draco, who nods his head before looking at the ground. It looks very much like a son would do to his father. 

“Ah, but I know why you are here,” Jean-Michel continues, his hand now pointing and flapping in a come-hither way towards Harry. “Your shipment has come!” 

At Jean-Michel’s insistence, Harry walks around the corner. Jean-Michel moves the stack of ignored records to his chair and points to a plastic crate, gesturing for Harry to set it down on top of the counter. “I was able to find every single one you requested,” Jean-Michel says, patting the edge of the crate filled with vinyls. “It took much longer than I expected, I’m afraid.”

“Jean-Michel, I don’t know what I would do without you,” Draco murmurs, voice heavy with affection. Harry’s chest aches. 

When Draco reaches into his back pocket to pull out his wallet, Jean-Michel lifts a hand. “Non, non,” he says, levelling a stare when Draco tries to argue. “Music,” Jean-Michel says with graveness, waving his hand over the crate, “is the most beautiful gift you can gift anyone. It will heal your son. It will heal _you_.”

Draco stares at Jean-Michel for a long time, his hands clenching beside his hips. His jaw tightens, and he takes a long, deep breath, peering out the shop window. Crowds continue to pass by, bundled for the cold night. Before Harry can think, he brushes the back of Draco’s knuckles with his fingers. Draco starts and withdraws his hand, eyes wide as he fixes a perplexed gaze on Harry before turning away, a small frown on his face. Harry takes notice of the way Draco draws himself upright.

“Merci, Jean-Michel.” Draco whispers, his voice shaky. “This is—” He rubs his palm against the side of the crate before shaking his head. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” Jean-Michel says softly, his hand reaching out over the counter to linger before hesitating and planting it on a corner of his cash register. He then turns to Harry. “You’re his friend, oui?” he asks Harry, his expression warm and tender. Harry gives a small nod, at a loss of what else to do. 

Jean-Michel says, “Then be a good friend.Take care of him.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and when he steals a glance at Draco he swears he can see a ghost of a smile.

**\--**

  
They leave shortly after, Draco using his back to push shut the glass doors of the shop before hoisting the crate in an awkward position on his hip. Draco directs them to a small alcove between a tattoo parlor and gift shop when he mutters, “Let’s just pretend you’re not witnessing this.” Then Draco gives a furtive side-to-side glance as he waves his free hand inconspicuously, the crate shrinking to the size of a Post-it.

Draco did magic wandlessly and wordlessly.

Harry can’t help his jaw from dropping. 

“Oh please,” Draco says with a roll of his eyes as he gingerly places the small square in his pocket. “I’ve been living amongst Muggles for nearly fifteen years. It’s a necessary skill to have.” A teasing smile curls at the corner of his lips. “Are you going to arrest me?”

Harry laughs and shakes his head. “No. I’m just shocked. That’s a rather difficult bit of magic to do wandlessly.”

“Well,” Draco drawls smugly, “some of us possess natural talent.” 

Harry squints, preparing for the challenge. He steps in closer to Draco, ready to counter his dry comment, but before he can do anything, Draco ducks from out of the alcove. 

_Bugger_, Harry thinks with a smirk, following after Draco as he nods towards the crosswalk. The street vendors are turning in for the night, the cacophonous noise of random music giving way to the busy streets instead. Two cars blare their horns at each other near the corner of the crossing, windows flying down, a heated exchange in tow. Draco stands off to the side, further away from the waiting crowd, watching the altercation unfold. 

“After the war, I didn’t have much to do,” he begins with a quiet voice as Harry sidles up beside him. “Father was in Azkaban and Mother was working with solicitors to try to get his sentence reduced.” He stares out into the busy street, eyes fixed on a building across the way. “And I was wandless.”

Harry recalls the sentencing at Draco’s trial. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop any repercussions of the war—that was far too generous—and, despite Draco being a child just like the rest of them, he was still on the losing side. Harry remembers the shocked whispers of the Wizengamot’s chambers when he stood to speak on behalf of Narcissa and Draco. 

As a result, Draco was not permitted to use his wand for three years. He was also under house arrest with limited interactions within the wizarding community (he had to speak to a parole Auror about his schedule once a week) for eighteen months, and reparations would be paid over five years from the Malfoy estate. When the Wizengamot spoke of his sentencing, Draco’s expression was impassive, but Harry swore he witnessed a shaking hand slip into the pocket of his formal robes. 

Lucius Malfoy was sentenced to Azkaban for ten years. Narcissa could retain her wand, but would be on house arrest with Draco for a year. Three years into Lucius’s sentencing, he was set free as a plea bargain for providing pertinent information about Death Eaters who had fled the country to various parts of the world. 

Harry was on the team that found them. 

“I didn’t have much else to do, really,” Draco continues, looking both ways down the busy road when the crossing signal beeps for their turn to cross. Harry matches his long strides so he doesn’t miss a word. “But I refused to leave the country with my parents, no matter how much they insisted.” 

Harry heard about Lucius and Narcissa fleeing to France after Luicius fulfilled his obligation as the key informant in the capture of the last of the Death Eaters. Two were located in the Caribbean, just off the coast of Florida, and the last was found living in a small village in Mongolia. The Malfoys had their Manor scoured and stripped of any value as payback for housing the Dark Lord. Even though it cleared inspection, no one wanted it, not even the Ministry. 

“So, I had time and my magic,” Draco says with a nonchalant shrug. “Then Astoria showed up around the Christmas holidays and wouldn’t leave. She was most insistent,” he adds with a fond smile. 

They walk in silence, making their way toward the Apparition point. 

“Do you still speak to your parents?” Harry asks.

“Only when necessary,” Draco says, eyes focused in front of him. “Father wasn’t the same after…” He stops and sighs before continuing. “They didn’t approve of my engagement with Astoria because she accepted the Muggle world and helped me see that it isn’t as terrible of a place as they had raised me to believe. Holidays were fun.” Draco says dryly with a slanted sly grin towards Harry. “Astoria didn’t take my parents’ tripe about pureblood traditions at all. She was bored of it from her own family.”

“She sounds like a person who didn’t take a lot of shit from anyone,” Harry says. 

“Right you are there,” Draco agrees. “She was the bravest person I knew. She had everything to lose—her family, her vault, her friends—and she forged ahead despite it all. She wasn’t a coward. I’ve often wished I was more like her.” 

Harry doesn’t speak. He knows that Draco working up to something important, and he doesn’t want to break the spell. His fingertips are itching to feel Draco’s skin again, to touch the heat of his wrist, but he can’t. The wind is bitter and cutting and cold, and he tells himself that it’s too much of a risk to expose his naked hands to rejection. He doesn’t want to break this moment. 

“You weren’t,” Harry says in a low voice, opting to focus on the pavement, afraid he may trip if he looks anywhere else. “A coward, that is. That day in the manor when—” He waves a hand over his face, “You knew it was me. You could’ve said it was me, but you didn’t. You made a choice. It saved my life.”

They turn to the alleyway near the skip by the Apparition point. It’s now filled with rubbish from a local restaurant, the dank smell of a day’s worth of food and other waste permeating the air. Harry realises he missed seeing the overpass with the big letters once again, too focused on the path in front of him. He has a small pang of regret for that. 

“Perhaps,” Draco murmurs, leaning against the exposed brick facade. There’s vibrant emerald and red graffiti art above his head. “But one good choice doesn’t negate the monolith of bad.” 

Draco’s eyebrows furrow together then, his mouth turned down, and Harry realises that he hates it. He hates the way Draco’s eyes look sad, the overwhelming sensation a heavy weight on his chest, and he craves to stop the discomfort—for both of them. The only thing he can think to do is shift gears. 

“Why the collection of vinyls?” Harry asks, hoping that changing the subject will be helpful.  
In an alleyway. Near a foul-smelling skip. Whatever. 

Draco shifts against the brick wall, wrapping his arms around his middle as if he’s trying to suppress a shiver. “It’s for Scorpius,” he explains, his hands clenching into his sides. “Jean-Michel found a vintage turntable in excellent condition, and—” He stops, his fingers fumbling as he picks off a piece of lint from his coat. “There’s no point in having a turntable without records.”

“Vinyl is forever,” Harry says, repeating the quote from the shop, mock-solemn, and Draco huffs out a laugh. His hair falls into his eyes, the small smirk appearing again. It makes Harry want to lean in closer. It makes him want to breathe in that sea scent, feel his warmth and be close to him in both words and body. He remains rooted in the spot.

“I’d better go,” Draco says, pulling out his mobile and looking at the screen. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment before shoving it at Harry, his gaze fixed to the left of his shoulder. “Here. Add your number. So I can show you Camden Lock properly sometime.” 

Harry stares at the mobile under his nose like an absolute git for a several seconds, his gaze flicking up to Draco. They stand frozen like this, with Draco’s arm stretched out and Harry standing there watching him. Harry doesn’t know what to make of this invitation, and he suddenly can’t bring himself to grab the mobile from Draco’s hand. 

“Forget it,” Draco says, his voice clipped and cold, pulling away to put the mobile back into his pocket. Harry finally snaps out of his daze, and wraps a hand around Draco’s wrist. 

“Wait, wait!” Harry says hastily, his hand tugging Draco a step closer. “Sorry,” Harry stammers. “Fuck, really, I’m sorry, I don’t know what—give it here.” 

Draco relinquishes the mobile, a small smile crossing his sharp face as Harry smirks and shakes his head. He slides his thumb across the screen to unlock it to add his number. 

“You really should add a pin to it,” Harry remarks when he gives the mobile back. Draco’s thumbs begin an aggressive dance across the screen. “Draco—” Harry starts before stopping, his mobile phone vibrating against his hip with a text alert. Before he can check it, Draco clears his throat. 

“Never needed to worry about it before,” Draco says with a shrug, his eyes riveted on the screen. 

Harry shifts on his feet to appease the antsy thrum of excitement bubbling in his stomach. He knows they should just Apparate out of here, but Harry realises he’s starving and has the urge to ask Draco to stay, offer to take him somewhere and grab a kebab. 

“I really need to go,” Draco says. He makes no point to leave. Harry continues to stare at him under the flickering fluorescent light above the back door of the shop, warm gold bathing over his wind-messed hair, colouring it buttery yellow. 

“Right,” Harry mutters, trying and failing to draw his gaze away. “I should, too.”

Draco nods, and with a flick of his wrist his wand slides into his hand. “Night.”

Harry nods back and replies, “Night.” 

And with a crack, Draco disappears. Harry slumps against the brick wall. He takes off his glasses and scrubs his hand over his face before pulling his wand out of the pocket inside of his jacket, and Disapparates home.

**\--**

  
When Harry arrives back to his flat, he pulls out the phone to see what the text Draco sent him says.

_Thank you._

He saves the number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The French that was spoken between Draco and Jean-Michel is as follows: “Draco! Ça fait un baille! Comment vas-tu?” - Draco! It's been too long! How are you? 
> 
> “Ça va bien. Juste très pris.” - Things are well, been busy. 
> 
> “Et Astoria? Comment va-t-elle?” - And Astoria? How is she? 
> 
> “Oh je suis désolé, mon ami,” - Oh I'm so sorry, my friend, I didn't—
> 
> “Ce n'est pas grave. Tu ne savais pas.” - It's fine. You didn't know. 
> 
> “Eh, on va dire ça comme ça,” - Eh, in so many words.


	7. Chapter 7

**  
**-August 2018-**  
**

  
Astoria declares that she wants to get away for a couple of weeks with Draco and Scorpius. “For some fresh air,” she says, her eyes tired despite her voice bubbling with life. Draco watches her pore over her laptop in the evenings, reading glasses settled on the bridge of her nose, chewing on her bottom lip. She searches and searches, trying to find the right place, the perfect spot.

Draco, confused by the persistence, offers to travel somewhere closer. Astoria insists every time saying, “No, it has to be something extraordinary.” 

“Why extraordinary?” Draco asks with a chuckle. Astoria is clicking around on her laptop, eyes trained on the screen. He sets a new mug of tea in front of her and hands her a medication phial. “We could go to Provence if you want to get out of the country—”

Astoria takes the medication, winces, and shakes her head. “No,” she says, voice raspy from the potion. “Not somewhere we’ve been before. I want to go somewhere new.” 

Draco sits down next to her, arm stretching across the back of the couch, tracing small circles over her shoulder. He leans over and looks at the screen on her laptop. 

“New York?” he says, surprised. “You want to go to New York?”

Astoria turns to give Draco a gentle kiss, her fingers coming up to trail feather-soft against the nape of Draco’s neck. “Scorpius has never been,” she answers, her lips brushing against his. “Thought it could be time he sees the Big Apple for himself.”

**\--**

  
The hospital room is almost too small for everyone to fit in, but with a few transfigurations from the Mediwitch, they make it work. Astoria winces as the IV goes into her left forearm. Scorpius sits beside her on the bed, holding her hand, watching the needle dig deeper into her tiny arm.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers.

Astoria gives a weak smile, taking a sharp breath as they adjust the needle into place. “Not too much, love. Just a little pinch. All is well now,” she says with a relaxed sigh, leaning back against the pillows propping her up. 

Scorpius nods, but Draco can see that he remains unconvinced. She looks worn thin, the bruises under her eyes emphasising the pale skin on her sunken-in face, her breathing a little laboured. When they did the weigh in, Astoria had lost almost a stone on her already tiny frame. Draco worries, but he tries to control his concern in front of Scorpius. He doesn’t want to worry him too. 

There’s a quick knock on the door and Hermione enters with a junior Healer in tow, a young witch whom Draco has never seen before. She must be relatively new. Draco hopes the girl isn’t too inquisitive or gregarious, as his patience today is running thin. Hermione slants a sly smile at him, the consultant Healer trailing behind her like a crup, laser-focused on levitating the laptop before her.

“Well, aren’t you a welcome sight today,” Hermione says to Scorpius. “How are you, Scorpius?”

Scorpius adjusts on the hospital bed. “I’m doing well.” He pauses for a moment, glancing at the IV in Astoria’s arm. “Are these treatments actually working?”

“We have seen improvements, yes,” Hermione says with a gentle smile. She takes a seat beside the hospital bed, plucking the laptop from the air before placing it in her lap. “You know, Rose was asking after you the other day. She wants to show you her new configurations on the Arduino. I think she said you had talked about it before?”

“Yes! She showed me her earlier designs and code for it!” Scorpius’s interest piques. “Did she tell you if she could get the program to function so it would be able to—” 

“—cast to the Google Home and have the lights play with music?” Hermione finishes, her smile growing. “She did. You know she’s at home right now and would love to show you. Why don’t you go Facetime her?”

“It’s okay,” Astoria reassures when Scorpius looks to her for permission. Draco gives an encouraging nod. 

“I’ll come and get you if anything changes,” Draco promises. Scorpius slides off the bed and pulls out his mobile, the door snicking shut behind him.

“I know that you asked about going on holiday,” Hermione begins, opening the laptop, her lip caught between her teeth, her eyes roving over something on the screen. The clicking of the keyboard is an odd reassurance, calming some of Draco’s nervous energy. 

“We were thinking about going to New York,” Astoria says, her voice brimming with excitement. She has been planning all week the places she wants to take Scorpius, from famous tourist traps like the Statue of Liberty to her off-beat favourites, such as an underground urban garden called the Lowline. 

“Scorpius has never been,” Draco adds. Astoria smiles at him, reaching out to grasp his hand. Her palm is sweaty, and cold, so cold. Draco wraps his other hand around it with a reassuring squeeze before rubbing gentle circles on her chilly skin to warm her up. 

Hermione is silent, her eyes moving across the screen before she closes the laptop, grips onto the sides of it, and hands it to the Junior Healer with a nod. The Junior Healer exits the room and Draco stands a bit straighter, preparing for the worst. Hermione’s lips turn down, the unease clear. When she speaks, Draco can tell she’s choosing her words with care.

“I’ve been looking over your labs and your diagnostics with the team. With the rapid weight loss coupled with your sleep issues and night sweats, we don’t believe it would be in your health’s interest to travel overseas. If something were to happen—” 

“You’re saying we can’t go,” Astoria whispers, her eyes trained on the floor. Her grip tightens in Draco’s hand. “Because I’m not healthy enough.”

“This isn’t a permanent diagnosis. It’s just for now,” Hermione says. “We can discuss this again when your vitals are more stabilised. Then we may revisit—” 

“I wanted to do this before Scorpius headed back to Hogwarts. I wanted to give him a chance to see…” Astoria stops and turns her gaze to Hermione, an overbright smile plastered on her face. Her grip loosens from Draco’s hands. “That’s fine. I understand.” 

“Astoria, I’m really sorry about this.”

“No,” Astoria says, shaking her head. “No, don’t apologise. We can go somewhere else. Somewhere that isn’t too far. Somewhere that if something happens, we can Portkey back to St Mungo’s. Right?”

Hermione gives a resigned nod. 

“Then we will find somewhere else,” Astoria says, her voice overly cheerful. She gives her famous reassuring smile, the one that sets anyone at ease. Hermione flicks a glance to Draco, but Draco can’t pay it any attention. 

All he can see is Astoria’s eyes brimming with tears.

**\--**

  
They settle on travelling to Ajaccio, where the sand sparkles and is always warm, the water so clear and blue that Draco can see straight to the bottom. Astoria finds them a small villa right by the sea overlooking the Mediterranean, fishing boats cutting across expansive tides of cerulean like a knife.

Draco takes Scorpius around the city where pastel-coloured buildings blaze against the summer sun, the breeze off the water humid and warm. They visit museums, eat local seafood, and enjoy walks on the soft sandy beach. 

“I know what’s going on,” Scorpius says as they walk past vendors in the marketplace. Vibrant blankets, bags and jewellery cover their tables and hang off the sides of their stalls. “You don’t have to hide anything from me. I know she’s not getting better.”

Draco stares at his son. He takes notice of the stiffness in his shoulders and the weary, resigned expression on his face. “The treatments are difficult,” Draco says delicately as Scorpius stops at a table adorned with jewellery on display. His finger brushes against a pair of turquoise studs and he shakes his head when the vendor asks if he’s interested in anything.

“I know she didn’t want to come here,” Scorpius says. “So where did she want to go?”

Draco shoves his hands into his front trouser pockets as he looks up into the clear sky, watching the birds fly overhead. “She wanted to take you to New York City. It’s one of her favourite places.”

“Maybe next year,” Scorpius murmurs, like a personal mantra. “Maybe we can go next year.” 

Later that night, Scorpius surprises Astoria with the set of turquoise earrings. Draco doesn’t know when Scorpius returned to acquire them, but his chest tightens when he sees the proud look on his son’s face. 

Astoria brushes her fingers against the edge of the studs with love, and says, “They’re absolutely beautiful.”

After Scorpius goes to bed, Draco finds Astoria sitting on the balcony watching the city lights dance across the blanket of black sea, arms wrapped around her waist. When he joins her, she appears frail and bleary-eyed with exhaustion. He doesn’t tell her he knows she’s been crying.

**  
**-December 2019-**  
**

Draco stares at the photo on the mantel of Scorpius and Astoria standing on the balcony of the villa in Ajaccio. The summer sun is so intense and blazing it finishes the photo with a washed-out ethereal luminance. Scorpius moves to glance at Astoria before waving at the camera, his smile all teeth, delirious with happiness. It was the last day of their trip before they returned home, before Astoria’s health began to decline further, before everything turned on them. They were confident the treatments worked, the minor setbacks just side effects of the potions, the medications, and the stress.

This is their first Christmas without her. 

Draco makes plans to have the winter holidays be as effortless and welcoming as possible. When Scorpius steps off the train in King’s Cross, a wan smile on his face, slouchy-tired from the long ride, he drops his trunk, wraps his arms around Draco’s waist and squeezes tight. Draco stands in shock for a moment before hugging his son back, and the intimacy makes him ache for Astoria’s presence, wish that she could share this moment with them, to see how much they miss and need her.

Later, when they arrived home, Scorpius stands in front of the open door to the room where Astoria spent her last days, staring quietly into the emptiness. Draco pauses his ascent of the stairs, witnessing Scorpius clench and unclench his hands into a tight fists before turning to his bedroom and pulling the door closed behind him.

Draco doesn’t disturb him, just stands in front of the door, placing a palm on the wood. Seconds later, he hears the whisper of music, wistful and anguished. 

The days leading up to Christmas are filled with silent routine. Scorpius spends hours in his bedroom, listening to music, reading, or texting Albus. They go for evening walks if it isn’t raining, in truth just seeking ways to get out of the confines of the house. The village’s shops glitter with Christmas lights, and the square is embracing the Christmas cheer more intensely than previous years. 

Sometimes Draco walks along the bluff overlooking the sea to watch the sun settle along the horizon and listen to the waves crash against the shore. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can hear Astoria’s laugh in the wind, the brush of her lips against his temple, the touch of her fingertips in his hair.

**\--**

  
Pansy and Daphne come over on Christmas Eve, Pansy leading a haphazard train of presents through the Floo while Daphne sits at the caboose, ostensibly to ensure the cargo doesn’t get damaged on their short journey. They truly do spoil Scorpius, giving him brand-new issues of his favourite comics and the latest versions of the video games he’s addicted to, and even a few programming books so he can assist Rose more with her Arduino.

Draco is also grateful for the wonderful and seemingly endless supply of wine Daphne brings. 

“I know you haven’t been to the vineyard for some time,” she says with caution, looking down into the glass. “So I thought it would be a good idea to bring some of it to you.”

Astoria loved the family vineyard in the south of France. Avignon was always sunny and hot during the summers and, before Scorpius was born, they would travel down to spend time with the fruit and taste test newer selections. 

“It’s lovely,” Draco says, and finds that he means it. 

He sets the glass down on the table and walks to the Christmas tree in the corner near the bay window. Astoria always decorated the tree with bright baubles of shimmering silver and blue, and wrapped the branches in flowing, matching ribbon. She would charm the lights to sparkle like fairy dust and the whole tree would come to life in front of their eyes, a spectacular wonderland in their living room. 

This year Scorpius asked for a smaller tree, something simpler. They still wrapped it in lights and selected Astoria’s favourite ornaments. When they finished, Scorpius said, “I hope she likes it.”

Now, in front of the tree, Draco reaches into it, his fingers grazing the branch where a small piece of parchment sits and he hands it to Scorpius. Scorpius furrows his eyebrows for a moment and Draco flicks his wrist, the parchment transforming into a wrapped box covered in silver paper. 

“Go ahead,” Draco encourages. “Open it.”

Scorpius takes his time unwrapping the gift, fingers nimble and precise. The turntable reveals itself with each unfolding, and when Scorpius finishes he brushes a delicate finger over the wooden edge. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. When their eyes meet, Draco can see the shimmer of tears in Scorpius’s eyes. He sets the turntable on the coffee table with delicate ease, rising from the sofa and giving Draco the second hug they’ve shared since he’s been home. 

“I miss her,” Scorpius confesses, his voice trembling and wet. Draco closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around Scorpius’s shoulders tighter. 

Draco swallows hard, and whispers, “Me too.”

**  
**-January 2020-**  
**

The countdown to the new year bellows from inside the house at the Burrow. Harry sits on the steps of the porch and gazing the stars. He’s feeling restless. He wants to get away, having spent far too much time dealing with everyone tiptoeing around him because Ginny brought Mark for New Year’s Eve.

They decided to not split up the family for Christmas. The kids deserved to celebrate at the one place that they knew, and it made sense that it should be the home they’ve known since they were born. Harry Flooed over on Christmas Eve, finding Ginny standing near the hearth with an anxious expression on her face. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, reaching out to curl a hand around Ginny’s arm. “Are you okay? Something happen to the kids?”

“No,” Ginny shook her head. “Nothing like that. It’s just…” Ginny looked at Harry with trepidation. “I’d like you to meet Mark. If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Harry said with ease. 

Harry wasn’t avoiding meeting the bloke. It was just that time flew by so quickly after the divorce finalised, what with the speed of the summer holidays passing, the kids heading back to Hogwarts, more holidays, birthdays, and time just slipping, slipping, slipping. Harry felt he could never catch up, couldn’t find solid ground.

The only moment time stands still was with Draco, on the coast watching the sunset, or standing in a smelly alleyway where Draco looked at him earnestly as he handed his mobile to him.

Mark greets Harry with a warm smile, dark brown eyes, and a soft voice that is soothing. He’s a little taller than Harry, dressed in casual Muggle clothes, his dreadlocks clasped in a low hanging ponytail. Harry notices a set of brightly colored beaded bracelets adorning Mark’s wrists which Mark explains are made of sandalwood and glass, originating from his family’s village in Ghana. 

It surprises Harry how fast he warms to Mark, and he can understand how his and Ginny’s personalities draw to each other. He oozes a peaceful presence about him, and seems naturally at ease in crowds. He fits into the family with eloquence and charm, and the kids love him. Social gatherings, even family ones, can be taxing for Ginny, and whenever she looks nervous or antsy, Mark places a calming hand on the small of her back, leans over to whisper something in her ear that has her tilting her head back, a loud and gleeful laugh escaping from her lips.

It has been a long time since Harry has seen her this happy. 

The door creaks behind him and he turns at the loud music and singing. Ginny emerges from the doorway. 

“There you are,” she says, closing the door behind her. She climbs down the steps to sit beside Harry, pulling her cardigan around her middle tighter. “Too much fun for you?”

Harry flicks a glance at Ginny, tilts a rueful smile, and turns his head back to the sky. “You could say that.” 

“Yeah,” Ginny murmurs, voice warm with understanding. “It’s hard to navigate the ‘I’m sorry’ looks and uninvited shoulder squeezes.”

“God, I love Mum but she keeps looking at me with sad crup eyes every time Mark touches you,” Harry says with a shake of his head. “It’s like they think I’m celibate and pining because we aren’t married anymore.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re pulling all the ladies,” Ginny teases, giving Harry a gentle shove with her shoulder. 

“Just blokes for me. I’m off women for a while,” Harry says with a grin and Ginny laughs, leaning to rest her head on his shoulder. They sit in companionable silence, and Harry casts a Warming Charm around them when the wind picks up.

“I think she’s more worried about what the press is saying than anything else,” Ginny explains, studying the black velvet sky. The stars at the Burrow are always brighter than anywhere else Harry has ever lived, no light pollution to blind out the brilliance of the night. He loved coming here in the summer, would rely on the speckled sky on nights he couldn’t sleep. 

“She just worries,” Ginny continues. “She doesn’t want to see you get hurt.”

“She doesn’t want to see you get hurt either,” Harry counters with a shrug. “It’s not just about me.”

“No, it’s not. But she knows the world depends on you in ways that shouldn’t be on your shoulders alone.”

Harry closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. The crispness of the air still burns his lungs despite the Warming Charm, and he clenches his hands around his knees for a moment. Ginny’s right. it will always be _something_ for Harry—the press, his job, his failing marriage, his loneliness, his abandonment. Something will always make the people he loves the most remain in constant vigilance, always on this side of worried. 

“So, are you out here hiding too?” Harry asks, deciding to change the subject. He rests his cheek on top of Ginny’s head. She smells of citrus and lavender, and Harry closes his eyes at the comfort of the familiar. 

Ginny hums thoughtfully before nodding. “A bit, yeah. I reckon if Mark can handle everyone on his own in one piece then he’s worth keeping around.”

“Savage.”

Ginny pulls away. Her eyes twinkle in the pale moonlight. “Well, he has some big shoes to fill.”

“Does he?”

“Absolutely,” Ginny says, pulling herself up from the steps, giving Harry’s shoulder a squeeze. “Come back inside when you’re ready.”

“I’ll be just a minute,” Harry says. He pulls his mobile out of his back pocket and stares down at the lighted screen.

“Harry?”

When Harry turns, Ginny is standing in front of the door. The light from inside spills onto the top of her hair, illuminating it in a halo glow. 

“Let’s get a drink sometime, yeah?” 

Harry smiles, and nods. “Yeah, sounds good.”

The door clicks behind him. Harry slides his thumb across the bottom of the screen and opens the text message app. He stares at the bright blindness of the screen, takes a deep sigh and begins typing. He hasn’t spoken to Draco since the evening Draco took him to the record store. Since he showed Harry a part of his life that was important, and private. 

His fingers tap clumsily and, after he corrects his spelling errors, he stares at the message for a several seconds before closing his eyes and hitting send. 

_Happy New Year?_

The wait feels like a century. Harry wants to believe that Draco is also sitting somewhere outside, staring at the same stars, wondering how his life turned into such a series of complicated misplaced puzzle pieces. He had been so sure about everything when he married Ginny, thought them destined to be together forever. 

Harry’s phone buzzes and he looks down at the notification. 

_Are you actually questioning the status of another year or was that merely a typo?_

Harry grins and writes, _Just thinking. _

_Thinking is terribly dangerous. Usually leads to existential crises. A bit old for that, really._

Harry is about to write back a response when another message comes in. _Maybe this year will be better. _

The words stand out at Harry in their tiny silver bubble, and it looks so large and heavy. He glances up into the night, stares at the same stars he’s looked at so many times before: through the window bars at the Dursleys’ when he was eleven, when it was his turn to keep watch in the Forest of Dean, on the crystal clear night of his wedding. He doesn’t know which ones have burned out, which ones are new, but they’re always there, always present. 

Finally he says, _Yeah, maybe. _

What he doesn’t say is, _Maybe it’ll be because of you. _


	8. Chapter 8

**  
**-January 2020-**  
**

  
Draco stares up at the clear summer sky and closes his eyes, the sun blazing on his back through crisp white dress robes, warm and welcoming. Harp music floats through the breeze, and he takes a deep breath.

The vineyard is in full bloom, lush trees and hillside brilliant green that day. Astoria chose her family’s vineyard as their wedding venue because she loved coming here as a child and wanted to bring that happiness to Draco. 

“Are you ready for this?” Pansy asks, a wide smile on her face, her lavender dress robes shimmering in the daylight as she reaches for Draco’s hand. He knows any moment Astoria will walk down the long white aisle runner towards the rose-covered arbour. They have been planning for this moment for months, and today is the day. 

The music shifts to something happy and melodic, and Draco’s heart races with anticipation. His head spins, time slowing down around him. No one has seen him with Astoria since the night before at their pre-wedding dinner, a mild flush on her cheeks from wine and laughter. Later that night she snuck into Draco’s bedroom her hair messy and eyes wild with lust. They made love with moonlight spilling over her bare shoulders and neck. 

Draco still has the love bite on his collarbone as a reminder. 

Astoria descends from the castle’s steps and Draco’s breath is whisked away. She looks like the embodiment of perfection, her champagne wedding dress finished in Belgian needle lace ordered specially from Bruges. The bodice is charmed to sparkle against the radiating sun and, as she walks down the aisle holding onto her bouquet of calla lilies, Draco’s eyes sting. She looks so beautiful, so gorgeous and he’s never seen anything as breathtaking as Astoria is right now.

Then the sky turns black in an instant, a loud rumble cracking above. Everyone rises from their chairs, startled and nervous. Astoria eyes widen, before they roll up into her head, her body growing limp and slumping on the aisle runner. Draco runs down the aisle to her, but she’s further and further away, and hands are pulling him back from her, tugging at him, and he’s screaming, screaming, and screaming.

The sky breaks open, pouring nothing but red and all Draco can see is how Astoria’s dress absorbs the harsh colour, soaks it in like a sponge. Her body lies lifeless, and she fades away, crumbles to ash right in front of him, and all Draco wants to do is howl, but when he opens his mouth nothing comes out and he’s choking, fighting for breath, hands tight around his throat—

“Dad! Dad, wake up!” Scorpius yells in Draco’s face, and Draco awakens gasping for air. 

He’s back in their living room, sprawled on their sofa. Draco’s neck aches, his chest tight and eyes wet. When he looks up, he sees Scorpius looking down at him in fear, and Draco jerks up, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” Scorpius asks, his voice shaking. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Draco doesn’t want Scorpius to see this, doesn’t want him to witness the way the nightmares have affected Draco and how he wakes up with tears in his eyes, heart racing, and how in the worst and thick of it he wishes he had died instead. 

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” Draco says hoarsely. He coughs to clear his throat before he speaks again. “Sorry.”

“You were…” Scorpius begins before sitting down next to Draco, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. “You were making a noise like you were in pain.”

Draco nods, covering his face with his hands. The stinging in his eyes intensifies, and tears begin welling in his eyes. The image of Astoria covered in blood, fading away into ash replays over and over again, and Draco can’t stop the tears then, can’t stop the shivering. 

Scorpius wraps his arms around Draco’s waist, his cheek resting on Draco’s arm. Draco takes a deep breath, rubs the back of his hands against his cheeks, and gives his head a small shake. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Scorpius squeezes his hug a little tighter before releasing his arms from Draco’s waist. 

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks. “I can text Albus and tell him I can’t make it—”

“No,” Draco interrupts. “You’ve both been planning this for weeks. I’ll be fine.”

Scorpius looks like he wants to argue but nods instead. His eyes shine a little, a furrow of concern creasing on his forehead, and a wave of guilt washes over Draco for having to do this to his son. He doesn’t want the weight of his pain to extend to Scorpius. 

“Okay, ” Scorpius says, resigned. “I’ll text you later?”

After Scorpius leaves through the Floo, Draco walks along the bluff near their house to watch the sun set. The sky looks dark and sad. Lonely. 

Draco understands.

**\--**

  
Imogen’s office has remained decorated for Christmas despite being well into the first week of the new year. Draco stares at a stray piece of tinsel dangling from the edge of a branch on the Christmas tree in the corner. The bright slow-blinking charmed lights illuminate the large pile of dried pine needles spread out on the floor.

“I’ve been having dreams,” Draco says. “About Astoria.”

“What happens when you have these dreams?” Imogen asks, taking notes on her parchment pad. 

“She’s always…” Draco swallows hard and coughs. He rubs his sweaty hands on his thighs. “She’s always dying. Turning to ash.” 

“And when you wake up from these dreams, what do you feel?”

Draco curls his hand around his knee and squeezes. He knows that there’s a purpose for these Mind Healer appointments, and Hermione has been encouraging him to continue going. But some days Draco doesn’t want to talk about the way Astoria’s death has changed everything about his life, that he’s living as though he’s been ripped apart and will never be repaired again. He doesn’t want to talk about the abandonment, the cruel reality that Scorpius has to carry the burden of living without his mother. 

When he chances a glance at Imogen, she appears patient and ready. Her clipboard sits on her crossed legs, a quill in her right hand. Draco sighs.

“I feel paralysed. And alone.”

Scorpius texted Draco the night of his last nightmare, and even through the message the overwhelming concern was clear. Scopius suggested coming home early but Draco insisted he continue his stay with his best friend. Draco wished that he could solve this, to continue on with his life without being so messy and so broken and so overwhelmed with existing. 

Imogen writes on her parchment pad and nods. “What happens when you wake up?”

Draco searches for the words to explain the absolute emptiness that follow the nightmares, how it takes every ounce of energy he has to let out a scream, to choke out the tears that ache to surface. How he is shattered and torn the rest of the day and petrified to go back to sleep again. 

“Sometimes…” Draco takes a deep breath. He presses a palm to his heart and rubs it. “Sometimes my chest hurts. A lot. And sometimes,” he shrugs a shoulder, and murmurs, “I cry.” 

“There’s not a lot of study about what dreams’ purposes are from a psychological perspective,” Imogen explains, resting her hands on top of her pad, “but there are theories that it’s your subconscious’s way of working through something so difficult that consciously working through it is impossible.”

“Isn’t there something we can do for this? A potion I could take?” Draco asks. He had hoped coming to this appointment he’d be able to get some Dreamless Sleep to at least forgo the nightmares. Addiction be damned. He’d rather climb that hill than continue to deal with anything close to this. 

“I am not a Healer and cannot prescribe anything for you. But I want you to consider that while these nightmares are extremely uncomfortable and distracting, that it’s a part of the healing process.”

“So what you’re telling me is that I am not getting any potions to help me sleep,” Draco says dryly. 

“Do you really want to numb the feelings, Draco, or do you want to work through them? It’s going to be hard. It takes work. And time.”

Draco scrubs his hand over his face and leans back in the plush chair. “How much time?”

Imogen’s smile is soft. “As much time as you need.”  
****

***.*.*.***

  
The pub is busy for a Sunday night. Ginny wrote Harry an owl to see if he would be interested in meeting up, and Harry cleared his schedule so he could leave work on time.

“Better take an umbrella,” Tracy said, waving her wand over her desk before leaving for the day. All the papers coalesced into neat piles, and other sundries floated into their respective places. “The rain is pretty nasty out there.”

“Damn it. I don’t have an um—” Harry started, but before he could finish Tracy produced an umbrella from her small handbag with a flourish. 

“I knew you were going to say that,” Tracy said, amused. “Have fun and good luck.”

The rain is a heavy drizzle that leaves every surface damp and humid and Harry’s grateful for the umbrella. Sometimes he doesn’t know what he would do without Tracy, he muses, pushing against the heavy wooden door of the pub. Harry’s glasses fog when he enters, and with a heavy sigh he removes them to wipe them on his shirt. He looks around to find a secluded spot away from a large post-work crowd, settling on a booth in a dimly lit corner that appears to be spacious and cosy. A small booklet with the drinks specials sits on the table and Harry looks it over to have something to do. 

Ginny chose the pub near Grimmauld, a place that they used to frequent when they were both done with their hectic work weeks and needed a place to unwind. Towards the end of their marriage it ended up being a long-lost memory for Harry, and he’s hit with a wave of nostalgia at the too-familiar wooden panelling and black vinyl-covered booths. 

A group of men about Harry’s age let out a raucous laugh, clinking their glass steins together before shouting some quip about friendship lasting forever. Harry sets the menu aside, pulls out his mobile and discovers a new text notification. 

_Have your new year blues finally dissipated? _

Harry grins. He can almost hear Draco’s drawl through the text. 

_Somewhat. Got any helpful suggestions? _

He hits the send button before he thinks about what he’s saying, and Harry has the sudden realisation that the text could be interpreted as flirtatious. What the fuck is he doing? Harry is so off balance and out of tune with everything in his life, and yet when he thinks of the times he’s been the most at ease lately, it’s been with Draco. 

Harry shakes his head and shoves his mobile into his back pocket. The whole thing is ludicrous. He looks to see Ginny entering the pub, her hair windblown and damp. She reaches up to flick her ponytail over her shoulder, squeezing the end where stray drops have left wet spots on her shirt. 

“It literally started pouring the moment I crossed the street,” Ginny grouses, wringing out her hair and shaking a wet hand as she slides into the booth in front of Harry. “Have you ordered?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Not yet. Wanted to wait for you.”

“How chivalrous of you,” Ginny says, grinning. 

Their server, a young blonde woman, shuffles up to the side of their booth, pulling out the writing pad with an overwhelming air of ennui before raising an appraising eyebrow. They order their drinks, (vodka tonic for Ginny, a locally brewed lager for Harry) and as the young woman walks away Ginny slants her a withering stare. 

“I have been dealing with kids all day whilst trying to finish an article before my deadline, and I had to go into Muggle London _again_ because James ruined his computer. Again. And yet,” she waves a hand over face with a large smile, all teeth and sarcasm, “I can still smile at people.”

Harry laughs, observing the server walking behind the bar to pull Harry’s beer. “Just don’t piss her off too much,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to have spit in my drink.”

“Nah, I’m not feeling that adventurous today.” Ginny sighs, slouching in exhaustion against the booth, rubbing the heel of a hand into her eyes.

“Burnt out from your wild time in Muggle London?” Harry teases. “What did Jamie do?” 

Ginny drops her head onto her flattened palms on top of the table. “Harry,” she says, her voice muffled, “Harry, this is on you.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows. “Okay. Mind telling me what I’m being accused of?”

Ginny raises her head, her eyes pleading. “Your son has a serious issue with understanding that there are ways to watch porn without buggering his bloody computer. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing, but this is the second time, _second time_, I’ve had to get this thing fixed.” 

“Um,” Harry says, covering his growing smile with a fist over his lips. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Well...” Ginny ticks a finger as she begins to list her suggestions, “you could start by explaining that porn is for watching, not downloading; that, no, most women do not look like that; and also no, the option to hook up with hot singles in your area through a sex Facebook doesn’t actually exist.”

They pause as the less-than-enthusiastic server delivers their order. Ginny squeezes her lemon into her drink and stirs the skinny straw in a circle. 

Harry takes a sip of his lager. It’s light, with a hoppy overtone. He licks the foam sitting on his top lip. “You’re assuming he’s looking at boy-girl porn.”

Ginny raises an eyebrow. “Well, judging by some of the things that have flown into his spam box, I’m thinking he’s very much into sampling everything.” She gives a dramatic shudder. “I didn’t even attempt to look into his history.”

Harry snorts out a laugh. “A wise choice.”

“I bathed that child!” Ginny chides, pointing a finger at Harry. “This is on you! You have to talk to him about discretion. I don’t care that he’s looking for wank bank material on the internet. Live and let live!” Ginny leans forward, her whisper conspiratorial. “But I’m sick of having to take several hours out of my day to explain to a random Muggle computer store employee about why I’m there without actually giving details.” 

“Okay, okay,” Harry says, raising his hands in surrender. “I shall talk to Jamie about his ever-persistent porn faux pas.” 

They share companionable silence, watching as the noisy group of blokes leave, a calm quiet falling over the pub. Harry hears his phone ding with a text message, and he looks down to see that Draco has replied. 

“Something important?” Ginny asks, taking a generous sip of her drink. 

“Er, it can wait,” Harry says, turning the phone’s sound to vibrate and tucking it into his pocket. 

Ginny’s sigh is deep, and she pokes the straw into her drink. “Harry,” she begins, her voice sounding sad and resigned, “I didn’t ask to come here tonight to talk about Jamie’s internet searches.”

“Okay,” Harry says, trying for casual rather than the anxious concern twisting in his gut. The last time that Harry can recall sharing a pub table with Ginny was right after their divorce finalised, and while they have had little personal alone time together, Ginny still maintains contact with Harry as much as possible. He’s missed moments like this where they can coexist and catch up, banter and tease. 

Ginny reaches into the knitted bag that sits against her hip, its thin cord stretched across her chest. Her hand reappears from inside it and she slides a small black velvet box across the thick lacquered table.

“I want you to have this.”

Harry stares at the box, heart hammering in his chest. His cheeks and neck grow warm, and his head spins, his vision blurs. He knows what’s in it: Ginny’s wedding band. The wedding band he had custom made for her. 

He immediately thought of the trouble Hermione went to tracking down the jeweller that forged Harry’s parents’ rings, and while the original metalsmith passed long ago, the family remained in business. It took weeks of correspondence to get the ring made, a magic alloy that would fit itself to the finger of the individual who received it, with additional protection charms surrounding it. Harry even had the jeweller carve the same Latin phrase etched on his mother’s wedding band, “Erimus In Aeternum”, on the inside. 

_Forever we shall be._

It didn’t matter. The whole notion of forever turned to dust and was made even more absolute by their signatures on a piece of parchment paper now residing somewhere inside Wizarding England’s Ministry of Magic. Somewhere on a random shelf on a random floor that Harry will never bother to find, there lies incontrovertible evidence, packed into a nondescript filing cabinet between other parchments, of the dissolution of the one thing that in his youth he thought he could always rely on. 

“I want you to have this back,” Ginny murmurs, her voice soft but shaky. She slides the tiny box across the table.

Harry closes his eyes and takes a long deep breath. “I had this made for you. I meant it to be yours. Forever.” He swallows hard around the lump in his throat, blinks back the sting in his eyes. This wasn’t something Harry ever thought would happen. He didn’t think he’d be sitting in a Muggle pub, talking to Ginny about having the very ring he made for her returned to his possession. 

“I know,” Ginny starts, her voice cracking. She clears her throat. “It’s not that I don’t love it, Harry. It’s that I think this is something you should have for someone else. Someone who’s meant to have it forever.”

Harry nods, reaching up with heavy limbs to retrieve the ring. It sits heavy in his hand, the velour of the box itchy and warm, and he has the urge to throw it as far as he can across the low-lit pub.

His phone vibrates in his back pocket. 

“Harry, please look at me,” Ginny pleads, her eyes shiny and sad. “I love you so much. I want you to be happy.” 

“I know,” Harry says, slouching his shoulders inwards. “I know.”

“And wherever you find that happiness, _whoever_ it’s with, I will be here for you.” 

Harry closes his eyes again, the tightness in his throat choking him, the burning in his eyes overwhelming. The well of tears urge to spill over and he doesn’t blink it back this time, lets them come, lets them pour over onto his cheeks. Fuck it if it’s in this Muggle pub, fuck all Muggle pubs for that matter. 

Ginny slides into the space next to him, her arms wrapping around his chest, her cheek resting on his shoulder. They say nothing, just sit, their drinks forgotten. 

Harry’s phone vibrates again.

**\--**

  
They depart after paying their tab at the bar. The surly server seems to be on a break, much to Ginny’s delight. When they walk outside, it's cold and the air hangs damply around them, but thankfully the rain has stopped, so Harry offers to walk Ginny back to Grimmauld Place.

When they get there Ginny hugs Harry goodbye and holds him in the embrace for a long time, her voice cracking when she tells him she didn’t mean to cause him any harm, that she loves him, and Harry can’t help but squeeze her tighter, card a gentle hand through her thick hair, and kiss the top of her head. 

When he gets back to his flat after walking around the block a couple of times to ease his mind, Harry pads out onto the balcony garden to stare at the sky. It’s overcast and dark, not a star in sight. Against the light pollution of London, Harry can see night clouds, a brown-tinged blanket covering the black.

His phone vibrates against his hip again, and Harry pulls it out to see Draco’s text message. 

_I am never without suggestions. But you’re going to have to narrow this down. _

Harry grins, rubs a thumb over the side of the screen. What Harry wants to tell Draco is that he wants to see him again, wants to find out more about the gap of years between then and now. He thinks about how he wants to say all of that without sounding too earnest. It’s been so long since Harry’s even tried to do this, and the fact that it’s with Draco makes it doubly strange. 

But if there’s anything that Harry is famous for, it’s diving into things head first. 

_What are you doing on Friday? _

There’s the echo of a siren in the distance, the blare of a car horn. Harry pulls the box out of his pocket, opens it to stare at the silver ring in front of him. It looks dull in the dim night, and sits heavy in his palm. He rests it on the ledge of the balcony, thinks about Ginny telling him he should give it someone that he can share forever with. His phone vibrates again, and as Harry looks down, a smile spreads across his face, and he laughs. 

_Going to a gig with you. Don’t be late. _

Harry knows he won’t.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
“Who are you texting?” Pansy asks, her voice relaxed and soft. She’s stretched out against her sofa, one arm above her head, hair splayed around her in a perfect circle.

“No one,” Draco says, tucking the phone back into his pocket. 

“Liar,” Pansy accuses. “If you’re not telling me who, that means you’re trying to keep it a secret.”

Scorpius called earlier to ask if he could extend his stay with Albus, and Draco obliged. But sitting in his living room listening to Astoria’s playlist alone was too heavy, too much. He sent a text and Flooed to Pansy’s flat. Daphne’s in France over the weekend to help with a huge event, and Draco reasoned that he could keep Pansy company.

When he appeared in the living room of Pansy and Daphne’s large sitting area, warm yellow light spilling onto the cream-coloured carpet, Pansy took one look at Draco and said, “I know exactly what you need. Sit down.”

She sauntered out into the living room flicking a delicate wrist to reveal a small bag of bear-shaped Muggle gummies. 

“Blaise sends his regards,” Pansy said, motioning for Draco to sit down on the large plush sofa. “He’s in America right now. Colorado, I think. Business is booming.”

After the war, Blaise had taken great efforts (with his mother’s influence, which somehow remained untarnished after the war) to build a successful marijuana empire. He travelled all over the world for several years studying and garnering as much information as he could from both magical and Muggle communities, before beginning his company, Blazed, which specialises in magical/Muggle hybrids. He also managed to convince the Wizengamot that he would never break the Statute with his new venture. And with the revitalisation effort in full swing, he managed to argue that the wizarding community had potential to backslide into old xenophobic habits if his new venture never saw the light of day. 

The case held and Blaise Zabini moved forward in his entrepreneurship.

Which means that Pansy and Draco get to test new products whenever they’re in stock. 

During Astoria’s last months, when the illness became brutal and the anti-nausea potions were no longer helpful, Blaise had spoken to Astoria about some of his medicinal line, stating that it had found great success in test audiences. He had supplied them with various prototypes, and it aided in Astoria’s comfort when she was having bad days. 

Draco hasn’t been able to tell Blaise how important those deliveries were for them, how they helped better than any breakthrough medicine St Mungo’s offered. 

“Scared,” Pansy sings, waving a solitary finger back and forth. 

“I’m not scared,” Draco grumbles, closing his eyes and resting his head against the back of the sofa. Pansy pokes at his thigh with her bare foot, scoffing. 

“You’re absolutely scared,” she mutters. “C’mon. Out with it.”

Draco sighs, wrapping a hand around her ankle. “Harry was texting me.”

“Hm, of course,” Pansy says. 

“We went Christmas shopping together,” Draco continues, the words spilling out of his mouth before he can consider them. The gummy is taking effect quickly. “It was…” He stops for a moment, trying to remember what he was saying, “...you know,” he continues, waving a hand in front of him, turning his head to Pansy. “Nice.”

“Nice,” Pansy repeats, with a solemn nod. “Nice is very good.”

“Yeah, he’s nice.”

Pansy points to Draco, punctuating the air with a slender finger. “You like him.”

Draco sighs and rolls his head to the ceiling again. “I don’t know.”

“Always liked him,” Pansy murmurs sleepily. “Circe’s tits, this is strong. Must tell Blaise how strong it is.”

“What’s it called again?” Draco asks, his mouth cotton-heavy. 

Pansy giggles, which then turns into a full on chuckle, which then morphs into a high-pitched laugh. It’s infectious and wonderful, and Draco laughs along with her. It must have been a lifetime ago when they could hang out together, relaxed and happy. Draco’s glad he did this. He loves Pansy so much.

“It’s called,” Pansy wheezes, “Purple Blaze.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Draco sighs, rubbing his nose in disdain. “He’s so fucking arrogant.”

“Arrogant, and an absolute genius,” Pansy proclaims, lifting herself up off the couch. “Fuck this, I’m ordering takeaway. Thai?”

Draco nods. “Yes, Thai. Thai is good. Get those—” He snaps his fingers a few times, trying to remember the rice-paper wrapped food that comes with peanut sauce. He stutters a few nonsensical words while wiggling his fingers, as if the gesture alone will magic the words to come to him. “Summer rolls!” he exclaims, “Yes! Need those. And a kebab. Kebabs are delicious.”

Pansy giggles. “Okay, I shall make sure you get your damned summer rolls.”

**\--**

  
Draco ends up staying the night. Scorpius won’t be coming back home until later the next evening, and Pansy insists he’s not in the position to Apparate without splinching his dick off, or to throw Floo powder into the fireplace if his life depended on it.

“You’re staying here, and we can get brunch tomorrow,” Pansy promises. 

“Brunch good,” Draco murmurs into the down pillow of the spare bedroom. It smells spicy and floral, and Draco takes a deep breath, filling his nose with the heady scent. “Your pillow smells brilliant.”

Pansy snorts. “Okay, you are higher than a feral dragon.” She covers Draco with the duvet, brushing back his hair. “Sleep,” she whispers. 

“Pansy,” Draco mutters, the lull of sleep overcoming him, heavy and soft and inviting. 

“Yes?” 

“Can you…can you stay?” Draco asks, his voice sleep-laden, tongue heavy and the languid pull of slumber taking over. “Don’t want to be alone,” he continues, quieter. “Nightmares.”

He doesn’t know if Pansy says anything to him after that, or if she stays, but Draco feels safe, so there’s that.


	9. Chapter 9

**  
**-January 2020-**  
**

  
Sunlight slants through the sheer curtains in the spare room and blinds Draco with overwhelming brightness. He dreamed the night before, but he can’t remember it all, the events of his subconscious a distant memory. He recalls waves and water so clear he could see the seafloor below and lively green eyes smiling at him.

Draco groans and stretches on the bed. When he turns, there’s Pansy curled up next to him, her hands resting under her cheek, hair covering her pillow in a mess, and face relaxed. He remembers asking her to stay the night before, the loneliness of waking up every day without Astoria too much to bear another night, even in his altered state.

He’s loose limbed, and rested, the first he’s been in a long time. Draco rubs the heel of his hand against his eye, runs his fingers through his hair. He’s starving, and he’s on his way to waking Pansy up for the much-promised brunch—that much he remembers before passing out—when his phone vibrates in his pocket. 

With a heavy sigh, Draco pulls the phone out and looks down the screen with bleary eyes. It’s from Harry. 

_So if I’m to be on time, I need to know where we are actually going. _

Draco furrows his eyebrows in confusion and runs a quick swipe over the screen to locate the previous text messages. When he reads the conversation, his stomach dips to his toes and there’s an urgent need to throw up. 

“Oh fuck me,” Draco says, not giving any mind to his volume.

Pansy shoots up next to him, eyes closed as she grumbles, “What ‘appened? ‘S going on?”

“It seems I was texting Harry last night while I was higher than Big fucking Ben, and invited him to the gig I was planning to go to on Friday.”

“Yeah,” Pansy says with a sleep-lazy nod. “You were texting...him.”

Draco rolls his eyes and waves the phone. “Clearly, Pans. Clearly.” 

Pansy groans and flops back onto the pillow again, pulling the duvet over her shoulders. “Why are you getting your knickers in a twist? Isn’t this a good thing?”

“What the fuck is good about this? I made a complete fool of myself while I was under the influence of Blaise’s latest creation, which, by the way, is stronger than the oldest Firewhiskey in existence! I should not be held responsible for this!” 

“So then cancel,” Pansy mutters, a covered shoulder angling up to her head. Draco lifts himself off the bed, staring in disbelief at the phone. “Also, can you please lower your voice? I’m trying to go back to sleep.”

“Cancel? Why would I—” Draco shakes his head. “Surely not.” 

“Then go,” Pansy mumbles. “But whatever you decide, can you please wait until it’s closer to noon? Sleep is wonderful, Draco. You should get more of it.”

Pansy slips back to sleep shortly after. Draco hears her breathing smooth out into even intervals. “Some help you are,” he grumbles, peering at the phone again. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to invite Harry to the gig on Friday. Draco had snagged two tickets after the last gig, and intended to see if Pansy or Daphne wanted to go with him, but it wouldn’t hurt if Harry came instead, would it? After all, it’s not like he doesn’t like music, and he went to that one gig where his friend was opening…

Maybe.

Draco unlocks his phone and types.

_Got a quill ready? _

He’s searching for information on the venue when he gets an immediate text back. 

_Morning. I was wondering if you would respond. _

Draco stares at the text and makes a bolder move. He taps on the phone icon and waits for the beeps to connect.

“Well this is a surprise,” Harry says in lieu of a greeting. He sounds more amused than Draco is comfortable with. 

“I have another idea,” Draco says, his voice rough. He clears his throat. “What’s your Floo address?”  
****

***.*.*.***

  
The week trudges by achingly slowly and Harry is ready for the weekend. Work is tedious and filled with meeting on top of meeting, and Harry goes home so mentally exhausted he orders takeaway and lounges in front of the telly, staring at the screen, unable to process what he’s watching.

When Harry first joined the Aurors, he thought he had found his purpose after saving the world and being the perfect soldier. He dreamed of making wizarding society a better place, and he was fortified to do it because he had Ginny, and that conviction grew when they had the kids. Harry loved his family, wanted to give them everything that he never had, but as the promotions kept happening, his interest in being an Auror waned. But he knew how to do it and knew how to do it well. 

The pressure to progress kept building, and when the distance between him and Ginny grew into a cavernous space, Harry turned to doing what he knew how to do well—take orders. He knew what to do when he was presented with a problem. He’d fix it. But when he couldn’t help fix the things that were affecting Ginny after Lily’s birth, Harry felt like he failed her somehow. That he couldn’t protect her from everything. 

When Friday comes, Harry leaves work early, too distracted by the agonisingly slow passage of time before Draco is due to show. Harry’s been bunking off early in increasing amounts the past few months, but after the announcement of his divorce and the subsequent intrusion of the press, no one seems to pay him any mind. It’s a gift Harry will take advantage of at the moment. 

Back at his flat, Harry cleans up the place and goes for a run. Draco won’t be showing up for another couple of hours at the very least, and he wants to have time to blow off some tension from the week. He carves through the back-alley side streets, feet hitting against cobblestone, allowing the bite of the January air to nip at his lungs. By the time he gets back to the flat, his body is relaxed and sweaty, and he goes for a quick shower.

Afterwards, Harry puts on a pair of jeans, forgoing the shirt after realising he hasn’t eaten since he grabbed a random bacon roll that someone brought in for the meeting earlier that day. He pads into the kitchen to make something, plays a song on his Alexa, humming to the music at first, and muttering to the staccato lyrics. 

After he takes a healthy bite of his sandwich, he turns the corner, singing with abandon, _“They call me Cardi Bardi, banging body, spicy mami, hot tamale, hotter than a Somali, fur coat, Ferrari—” _

Harry chokes from a too-big swallow of his food. Draco is standing in his living room, facing away, wearing a black leather jacket and too-tight dark denim jeans. Harry’s mouth grows dry staring at Draco’s slender legs. God help him. 

“Um, what are you doing here so early?” Harry manages, his voice hoarse. 

Draco whirls around, his eyebrows flying up to his hairline, mouth opening a little before he coughs and looks away. “I’m not early,” he says, his voice rough. He chances a glance at Harry, before looking at the ceiling, nose wrinkling in distaste. “What in Merlin’s name _is this_?” he asks swirling a finger around the room.

Cardi B continues to slay. _Diamond district in the Jag' (I said I like it like that), Certified, you know I'm gang, gang, gang, gang (I said I like it like)_. Harry smirks, taking another bite of his sandwich. 

“You don’t know Cardi B?” He tsks and shakes his head. “How are you able to keep up with the talent of this generation?”

“_This_ is talent?” Draco demands. “Hardly. Which still doesn’t explain why you’re—” He gives Harry a once-over again, waving his hand in front of his shirtless state. “Not exactly ready to go.” 

Harry looks down at his bare feet and chest and laughs. “Well, you said the doors open at 7:30, so I thought I had more time.”

“The doors open at 7:30, and I want to get there before they open.”

“Draco,” Harry says, leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, “The doors open at 7:30, the main act will not be on until at least 9. We have time.” 

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m well aware of how gigs work, Potter,” he snipes. “I want to get the proper spot.”

Harry bites his lip, trying to not laugh. “Proper... spot?”

Draco tilts his head back, taking in a long breath. “Can you please clothe yourself? This conversation is becoming very... distracting.” 

Harry’s skin grows warm, and he decides to take a chance on bravado and prod a little. “I was considering just going like this. Think I’d fit in with the crowd?”

“If you appear in public in that state, I refuse to be associated with you on sartorial principle,” Draco says, walking over to the sofa and settling down. He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out his mobile. “You’re a terrible host, by the way.”

“Maybe you should come over more often so I can improve,” Harry says as he walks into his bedroom to retrieve a t-shirt. He settles on one of Dean’s band tees, and sits on his bed as he puts on his socks and Converse shoes. 

Draco remains on the sofa, one leg crossed, ankle to knee as he flicks a delicate thumb over the surface of his mobile, a small smirk on his face. 

It’s a surreal picture—_Draco Malfoy_ using Muggle technology with the proficiency of someone who grew up with it. Harry shrugs into his jacket, and waits for Draco to finish what he’s reading. 

After giving Harry an appraising once over, Draco rises from the sofa and says, “Much better.” He lifts his arm and raises a mischievous eyebrow. “Side-along? Since I know where the venue is?” 

“Sure,” Harry says, wrapping a gentle hand over the exposed part of Draco’s wrist. He tries to think of the pull of the Apparition rather than the warm tingle of skin on his fingertips.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
The venue, located on the corner of Camden High Street, is a building that Draco frequented with Astoria when they lived in Camden Lock, a lifetime before their decision to get married, and before she became pregnant with Scorpius. Before the illness started taking over, ebbing away at her life, tiny bits at first, becoming more rapacious with time. Draco hasn’t been here in years.

It’s changed ownership since he lived here, but the large white facade, high arches near the roof and smooth columns feel like home to Draco, and the rush of excitement takes over when he walks closer to the black-painted entrance with Harry. There’s a queue wrapping around the corner, and an angry wind blows over the patrons waiting to get inside, huddling closer to each other for warmth. Tangerine-coloured light spills over the pavement and, as he leans his back against the facade of a closed restaurant, Draco is surprised by the nostalgic craving for a cigarette, an homage to his misspent youth. 

“This is why we should’ve waited until 7:30,” Harry teases, resting his shoulder against a chipped white wall, zipping up his jacket against the chill. 

“If you’re up for getting risky, you could always cast a wandless warming charm,” Draco mutters, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. 

Harry looks past Draco’s shoulder to the crowd in front of them. The queue moves and shifts as the patrons edge closer to the door. He looks behind him, gives a nonchalant shrug before waving his hand over both of them. Harry’s magic tingles over Draco’s skin, tender and strong, coupled with a comforting warmth.

Draco grins. “Much better.”

“So,” Harry begins, shifting his weight on his hip, “is this singer your choice or…”

Draco rests his head on the wall behind him, looking out into the street as groups of hipsters walk by in large fluffy sweaters and jaunty scarves, and leggings. So many leggings. 

“Mine,” he answers, rolling his head to stare at Harry. 

“First time seeing her?”

“Mitski? No, actually. Took Astoria to see her a couple years ago.” 

What Draco doesn’t tell Harry is that it was one of the happiest memories he can think of before her illness took a toll. They had made plans that year to go to as many gigs as possible, trying to rekindle the freedom of Astoria’s upswing in health that year, the vibrancy of her happiness. She was so strong and alive then, beautiful and happy. Draco closes his eyes for a moment trying to recall how her hair moved that night as her eyes filled with tears, the lights playing shadows over her euphoric face.

**\--**

  
Draco’s favourite spot is on the second-floor balcony, off to the left side. They snag a spot against the balustrade, which curves and winds around the circle of the theatre. Bright red walls trimmed in gold stand out against the stage lights, and Draco takes a deep breath, his skin buzzing and electric.

“I love this spot,” Draco says, leaning close to Harry’s ear so he can speak to him over the music and raucous noise of patrons talking. “The acoustics here are so great. It’s as if you can _feel_ the music.” 

Harry smiles, wide and delighted, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Draco sees a small dimple in the corner of his cheek, and has the urge to touch it.

“What?” he asks, when Harry’s piercing stare rips Draco open like he’s on display, that all the secrets he’s kept locked away in a tiny and safe box are spread out on the table for examination. 

“Nothing,” Harry replies, eyes searching over Draco’s face. He turns towards the stage where the road crew are setting up for the opening act. “You look different when you talk about music.”

Draco rests his elbows on the balustrade, studying the crowd below. “Astoria loved Muggle music. Lived for it, really. It was her lifeline, in a way.” He inhales a deep breath and sighs. “I don’t think she’d want me to give up on it. Not because she’s gone.”

Harry’s gaze is penetrating. Draco pretends to search the growing crowd below, bodies pressing towards the barricade, and the energy alone is so hypnotic, so eager that if Draco didn’t know any better, he’d almost believe he was in a room full of magic itself. It’s wonderful and refreshing, and familiar and comforting. Draco taps his foot in anticipation. 

“I saw a bar on the way in,” Harry says, leaning so close his lips brush against Draco’s ear. He clenches the rail to suppress a shiver. “Want something?” 

Draco bites the inside of his cheek to steady himself. “Sure, whatever you’re having.” When he reaches for his wallet, Harry waves a dismissive hand and walks away. Draco tries to not think about how warm Harry’s breath was against his skin. 

Harry returns as the opening act take the stage and they drink their beverages. The opener is a local electric folk duo that Draco’s never heard of, a sad reminder of how far removed he is from the scene. Time passes easily, and as the main act takes the stage, Draco and Harry discard their jackets, laying them over the balcony. The crowd has begun to press in now, straining to get a view of the stage, closing the gap of space between them.

Sweat pools at the base of Draco’s spine, an onslaught of body heat crashing over him, one wave after another, and he closes his eyes, moving his hips to the sweet soprano on stage. It’s like he’s flying in the air on his broom in the middle of a beautiful summer day, nothing but open space and the exhilarating discovery of uncharted territory. Harry is also moving to the beat, his hair pulled up into a sloppy ponytail, damp tendrils sticking to the base of his neck. 

There’s a shift in the pace, and the lights began to grow darker; blues and reds splash across the stage. The singer tilts her head back, raises the microphone to her lips. Her voice shakes with pure and raw emotion as she sings, and Draco is breathless. 

_You're my number one_

_You're the one I want_

_And you've turned down_

_Every hand that has beckoned me to come._

It happens when Draco least expects it. A roiling heat in his stomach spreads into his chest and shoulders and arms, his ribs squeezing into his lungs. Everything hurts in his core. 

_You're my number one_

_You're the one I want_

_And I've turned down every hand_

_That has beckoned me to come_

Draco’s vision swims. The song slows and morphs, the colours of the lights too bright to focus. He’s dizzy, unable to breathe, and every breath isn’t enough, his chest too tight to fill with air. 

He has to get out of here. 

Grabbing his jacket, Draco runs through the mass of people behind him, spilling through them with clumsy feet. His legs shake and wobble, and they’re heavy, so heavy, but he has to escape from this loud sound, from the press of bodies, from this overwhelming rise in temperature of the theatre. 

Draco stumbles out of the front door, almost crashing into a couple standing on the pavement. He attempts an apology but the words are too thick, his tongue too heavy. He opens his mouth but nothing comes no matter how much he tries, and he’s certain that the vice grip on his chest will kill him, so he must be dying. That’s what is happening right now; he is _dying_. 

“Draco!” someone calls behind him, but he keeps walking until he can slump against the side of the building, dropping his jacket, his staccato breaths drowning him. Draco closes his eyes, grabs a fistful of his t-shirt, the pain almost too much to bear. 

“Fuck, I almost lost you,” Harry says, his breathing laboured. There’s a momentary pause. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“I can’t—” Draco gasps, eyes squeezed shut. He pulls on his shirt, fist clutching tighter. “I can’t—” 

“Hey. Hey.” Harry’s murmurs are a gentle melody as he places tentative hands on Draco’s shoulders. “Hey. Look at me. Draco, please look at me.” Draco opens his eyes, and Harry is right there, so close the warmth of his breath brushes over his face. 

“Listen to me. You’re okay,” Harry continues, calm voice smooth and gentle like the waves of a summer sea at low tide. His fingers glide up the side of Draco’s neck, thumbs resting at the base of his jaw. Harry’s hands cool Draco’s hot, sticky skin. 

“I want you to take a deep breath,” Harry murmurs, gentle eyes fixated, and the mass of people behind them becomes blurry, an unmarked stamp of time. “I’m going to count and you are going to take a nice deep breath.” Harry’s voice is pleasant and warm like his hands, delicate and coaxing. 

They take several breaths together like this, inhale, and then exhale, slow and controlled. The pounding of Draco’s heart steadies, that tightened coil in his chest unfurling. He shivers in the cold night. Harry attempts to place Draco’s jacket over his shoulders, and Draco shoves it away. 

“Not yet,” he whispers, closing his eyes, the burn of tears threatening to escape. His teeth chatter, and then a sudden waterfall of heat; Harry’s magic caressing over Draco’s skin, a blanket of soothing comfort. Harry’s hand remains wrapped around Draco’s neck, thumb brushing along his jaw. Draco leans into the touch. 

“How often does this happen?” Harry asks, voice heavy with concern. 

Draco attempts an insouciant shrug. “Often enough,” he answers in a rough voice. 

When Draco opens his eyes, Harry’s still there, green eyes bright against the glow of the street lamps. He brushes his thumb to the corner of Draco’s mouth, eyes travelling down when Draco parts his lips, holding his breath. For a wild, absurd moment, Draco thinks Harry may lean in and close the gap between them. 

Instead, Harry blinks and pulls back, handing Draco his jacket. 

It takes a couple of tries, but Draco manages to get his jacket on. His hands are shaking a little. He blames it on adrenaline. 

“Tea?”

Draco nods. “Tea.” 

Harry waves a hand in front of him with a smirk. “This is your area. Lead the way.”

**\--**

  
Their quest for tea brings them to a late night Greek taverna, where it’s warm and empty inside so Draco doesn’t mind. They settle into a corner of the small shop, the employees sitting behind the counter on barstools playing on their mobiles and listening to music in another language on the radio.

Harry arrives at the table with beverages in paper takeaway cups, setting one down in front of Draco before settling down in a chair on the opposite side. He blows over the top of the steaming liquid, his eyes fixed on Draco. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” Draco asks, occupying his fingers with spinning the cardboard sleeve around the cup. 

Harry chances a sip of the hot tea, taking extra precaution as he sets it on the table. “Do what?”

“You know,” Draco says, spinning the cardboard sleeve faster. “Back at the venue.”

There’s a dry chuckle that makes Draco glance up. Harry’s rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Ginny, actually. I used to…” Harry takes a deep breath. “I used to have nightmares and panic attacks a lot. After the war.”

Draco’s eyes widen in shock. “Oh.”

Harry gives a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah. She helped a lot with it. Then Hermione got wind of it and told me to go see a mind Healer.” His smile grows more genuine, and he raises an eyebrow at Draco. “And I think you know it’s hard to say no to her.”

Draco smiles in return, remembering the kind way her sleep-soft voice whispered, _Draco, have you considered going to a mind Healer?_ when he rang her up in the middle of the night after that terrible nightmare. The next day Hermione texted him Imogen’s contact information, with the encouraging note that there was no pressure, and the details were there for him if he needed it. 

They sit in companionable silence with the radio booming a house techno beat, the kids behind the counter laughing and yelling at each other in Greek. People pass by outside in the cold, bundled in layers, and Draco thinks about how this—this pushing forward, this moving along—this is how everything is now, and he thinks about how he had spectacularly lost it, in public, at a gig. 

“It’s never happened before where I couldn’t control it,” Draco admits softly, staring out into the street as cars drive by in the night. “I always was able to—” He scrubs a hand over his face, scrambling to find the words. “I could think of… Astoria. I would think of her, and... and it would calm down.”

Harry’s silent for a long time. His gaze is unwavering, and Draco feels bared and exposed, as if Harry’s eyes alone take him apart layer by layer. His voice is quiet when he speaks. 

“It’s hard to live sometimes.” 

“Yeah,” Draco says. “It really is.”  
****

***.*.*.***

  
Harry’s by the ocean again.

Waves crash against the rock-laden surface, the sky speckled with enormous clouds of fluff, so pillowy soft Harry has the urge to run his hand through them, smear the silky white across crisp blue. His bare toes wiggle into the craggy sand, and the frothy sea foam is warm and inviting on the pads of his feet. 

Slender arms wrap around Harry’s waist, a sharp chin settling on his shoulder, a delicate brush of lips against the back of his neck. Harry flutters his eyes closed and leans into the embrace. 

“I thought I’d find you here,” Draco murmurs, his breath hot on Harry's tingling skin. Harry spins to a vision filled with silver eyes, and the first thing he thinks when he peers into them is _safe_. 

“Don’t leave,” Harry whispers, imploring. His hands cup Draco’s face, fingers sweeping through the bright locks of hair. Draco’s smile is wide and glorious and happy. It makes Harry’s chest ache. 

“Where would I go?” Draco whispers back, leaning closer and staring at Harry’s lips. “When everything is right here?”

Then Draco kisses him. Harry’s feet seem to sink deeper into the earth’s chasm, taking every part of him and swallowing him whole. The press of their lips is electric, overwhelming, and Harry craves more. He licks into Draco’s mouth, tastes salt from the sea, and chases it with a heady fervour he hasn’t experienced in a long time. Draco moans when Harry’s fist closes around the soft hair in his palm, and as Draco pulls away, Harry is empty and alone, and he seeks the warmth of Draco’s mouth again. 

“Take us home,” Draco gasps as Harry sinks his teeth into the muscle of Draco’s neck.

Everything blurs, swimming like the pull of Apparition, the_ tick, tick, tick_ of a Pensieve memory, a slotted mix of photos. They're now in a bed of sheets, silky and cool. Harry shivers at the heated press of fingertips, the slick slide of sweat.

“Tell me what you want,” Draco whispers in Harry's ear, pressing chaste kisses down his chest and stomach. He licks at his navel, tongue thick and smooth, and it makes Harry arch at the touch, a surprised gasp at the wet slide. Draco chuckles against his skin, nips at the dip of his hip bone.

Harry knows he's hard, the merciless aching throb between his legs a consistent reminder. Draco crawls between them, and settles down on his stomach, hands brushing over Harry’s naked thighs, knuckles caressing against a sensitive spot near his balls. His heart hammers harder, head spinning with euphoria at the ghostlike touches, shivering when a gust of hot breath falls against his skin. 

“Please,” he gasps, fingertips brushing against Draco's jaw. “Please.”

Draco's grin is wicked and knowing. Harry cries out, blindly grabbing the sheets above him when the heat of Draco’s mouth encloses around his cock. The filthy swirl of his tongue accompanied by the sight of Draco’s hollowing cheeks make Harry’s hips buck, and he clenches at that lustrous hair again. Draco’s eyes flutter and he groans taking Harry all the way down, and Harry’s breath stops short, his lungs pulling on his body like a tightrope. 

“No, no, stop. Stop.”

Draco pulls off with a small pop, eyes lidded and dazed, his lips swollen and wet. “Why?” he asks, voice rough and haggard, the hint of a whine at its edges.

“Kiss me,” Harry begs. “I need— please, just kiss me.” 

Draco's lips are hot and wet and it’s everything Harry needs, a deep gulp of fresh air after being locked away for too long. He gasps when Draco's hand wraps around him, and Harry moans into his mouth, urging for more. It happens fast, the touch, the swipe of tongue, and Harry's drowning, drowning, drowning—

Harry wakes with a startled gasp, kicking off his blankets as he sits up. The beeping of his mobile alarm rattles in the air, loud and chirpy, and Harry leans over to his bedside table to shut it up. His head swims, the world tilting violently on its axis, mouth dry and foul tasting.

His dick _aches_. 

“Fuck,” Harry groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, before flopping back down on the bed. He stares at the spinning ceiling fan, a swishing blurry mess without his glasses. For several moments he just lies there, attempting to calm his body’s autonomic reaction to the dream. 

But Harry can’t quell the sensation of Draco’s tongue against his body, the briny taste on his lips, or the way his hair felt so perfect in his hand. His joggers push painfully against his stupid erection, and with an exasperated sigh, Harry shucks them down to his knees. 

It doesn’t take long to get off, just a few perfunctory pulls, a free hand cupping his balls, and when Harry’s done, his fingers and stomach sticky with come, all he hears is Draco’s voice saying _take us home...take us home...take us home_.

**\--**

  
“Harry? You alright, mate?”

Harry blinks into focus and turns away from the charmed window he has been staring at for the last ten minutes. He focuses on the huge round table filled with different department officials, all looking at him with interest, which can only mean someone has asked him a question. 

“Hm? Oh, er, what was that?” 

The group exchanges a few curious glances before Jameson clears his throat and speaks up. “Uh, we were going over the weekly update? Wanted to know if there was anything else you... wanted to add?”

“Right,” Harry says, giving a quick nod. “Right. No, I think we’ve covered everything. If there’s any other information that comes up we can go over it on Friday.”

Harry stays behind as everyone exits, and Jameson comes over with a familiar expression of unease on his face. Jameson was Harry’s partner for almost a decade, and when Harry got his promotion for the head of the DMLE from Head Auror he assigned Jameson as his successor. Working together in close quarters has offered them a bond that Harry doesn’t extend to many others. They’ve seen a lot, have been through even more. 

“What’s going on?” Jameson asks, leaning on the conference table, crossing his ankles. “You’ve been staring out that window all morning.”

“Long weekend,” Harry lies, with a shrug. He takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

“Listen,” Jameson begins, folding his hands in front of him, his mouth a thin line. “I know things have been a bit difficult lately. And if there’s anything we can do to help with that—”

“Thanks,” Harry says. “It’s not that.”

Jameson nods and claps his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Alright, but if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Harry takes his time on his way back to his office. Tracy is standing next to her desk, holding a takeaway cup of coffee. 

“What’s this?” Harry asks, taking the proffered cup. 

“Your afternoon delight,” Tracy says, offering Harry the drink. “Looked like you could use a pick-me-up after that meeting.”

“Thanks, Trace,” Harry says. “Can you screen all my calls and owls? I have a lot of paperwork to go over.”

“Sure thing, boss, I’ll field all the unnecessary malarky that comes our way. I am a force to be reckoned with and will rain wrath on anyone who tries to penetrate it.” Tracy growls an exaggerated roar as she sits down. 

Harry chuckles, closing the door to his office. He sets the coffee down and walks over to the window that’s charmed with a view of Muggle London today. He always thought it was ironic how the Ministry existed underground in the middle of so much activity pressing right onto their fingertips and yet was so far away. 

Harry’s mind drifts to the people above, walking and driving to their destinations, with no idea that something beyond their imagination exists right at the reach of their own hands. He thinks about the cold night air, and the orange glow on Draco’s cheekbones when he held onto him telling him to breathe. He tries to remember the way Draco’s lips felt in the dream, and wonders, for a moment, what would have happened if he had leaned in a little closer and kissed him.


	10. Chapter 10

**  
**-January 2020-**  
**

  
Draco is in the back garden reading when Elisabeth stops by with a basket filled to the brim with fruit and vegetables from the co-op up the street. Her white peasant skirt billows against the sea breeze, a long grey-white plait cascading over her shoulder. Draco gets up as she ambles over, smiling brightly.

“I haven't seen you in a while,” she says, patting the large basket. “Thought you might need some stocking up.”

“Let’s go inside,” Draco says, taking the basket from her hand. “I can make us some tea.”

“Tea would be lovely,” Elisabeth agrees. 

Draco makes tea in the kitchen while Elisabeth roams to the living room, surveying the photos over the mantel. She does this every time she comes over, looking at them one by one as if they hold a new story for her, and always compliments them with some new discovery she finds. Astoria loved that about her, would always indulge Elisabeth with a story or anecdote that coalesced with the picture she was gazing at. 

Draco spells the mugs into the living room, floating one over to Elisabeth. She takes the mug with delicate ease, turning back to a photo in front of her. 

“This one has always been my favourite,” she says, lifting her cup to the picture.

The photo was taken the summer Astoria taught Draco to drive, and he had just passed his Muggle driving test. He failed the first time, taking a hit on his pride but Astoria assured him it was normal to fail the first time, and the second time he passed with flying colours. Draco was shocked that he could pass at all, even if he never admitted that out loud. 

They were overjoyed with his accomplishment, much to the dismay of his mother. She didn’t understand why Draco wanted to get a Muggle licence to begin with, under the delusion that he would escape with his parents to France after his father served his reduced sentence. When he first drove home after getting that licence, any hesitancy he had about staying in England withered away in the summer heat.

“That was a good day,” Draco says, taking a sip of his tea. Astoria leans against the car, her knee-high boots laced up over tight stonewashed jeans. They’re staring at each other, the sunlight cascading over their faces and they look so, so happy. Young. Free. All the possibilities that they could have ever wanted ahead of them.

Astoria is radiant in the photo, her hair thick and flowing, smile shining in the beaming sunlight. Her skin is golden from those summer rays, and her frame is a healthy weight. They had both got random piercings the night before, Astoria’s navel glittering in the photo, and Draco smiles at the hoop nose ring that almost sent Narcissa into convulsions. 

That made Astoria laugh and laugh, the sound echoing down the hallway to Draco’s bedroom at the Manor. 

“Astoria always talked about how happy she was for you that day,” Elisabeth murmurs, giving the frame a gentle brush of her fingertip. 

“She loved photos,” Draco says, settling down on the couch. “Always wanting to take them, always cataloguing. When she found out that Muggles photos didn’t move, she became obsessed with them. She thought it was fascinating how time in them froze in just one motion. We still have boxes of photos in one of the cupboards.” 

Elizabeth hums, settling down onto the couch opposite of him. “Why do you think she did that?”

Draco considers the question for a long time, staring into his tea cup. “She didn’t want to miss anything,” he admits. “I think she always knew she would die young.” 

“You know she came to me a few months before she passed. We had tea, chatted about our gardens, caught up on village gossip. Then she asked me for a favour.” 

Draco looks up at Elisabeth as she takes a long sip of her tea, his heart hammering in his chest. “What did she ask?”

“She asked me to check in on you. And Scorpius. To make sure that you both were okay.” Elisabeth reaches over to take Draco’s hand. “She really loved you both. She worried for you a great deal.”

They sit together in the quiet for a long time before Draco speaks again. 

“Astoria sent a photo album to us for Christmas.” 

Elizabeth raises a curious eyebrow. “Oh?” 

Draco nods. “It had some of her favourite memories in it.” He looks back down to his cup, willing the courage to ask the question that’s on the tip of his tongue. “Would you like to look at it?”

Elizabeth’s smile is soft and sincere. “I’d love that.”

**\--**

  
That night, after Elisabeth leaves, Draco takes the car that Astoria adored so much out for a spin. He drives on the motorway with the windows down, the frigid January air chilling his skin. It rains a little, but Draco leaves the driver’s window down, his right arm hanging out of the side, palm facing up to the sky, cold droplets soaking into his skin.

When he’s lying in bed that night, falling asleep to sparkling constellations he Lumosed on the ceiling, Draco dreams of driving down the motorway in Cornwall, hot golden sun beating on his skin. He looks over to see Harry in the passenger seat, hair whipping in the wild wind, laughing. Draco laughs back.

**  
**-February 2020-**  
**

  
“To Astoria,” Daphne declares, raising her champagne flute. Pansy and Draco follow suit, waiting for her to continue. “Happy birthday, love.”

They all take a sip together, silence falling over the group. The fireplace crackles in Pansy and Daphne’s flat, the last dregs of fire beginning to smoulder into embers. Draco had been counting down to this day since the turn of the month, right to the hour the night before. Sleep was impossible as he lay awake staring at his Lumosed stars through most of the night. 

When he fell asleep it was fitful, the anxiety of the day nabbing any attempt at slumber. He awoke with muscles tight and sore, and the significant signs of a headache behind his eyes. Pansy called inviting him over to their flat that evening, if Draco was inclined to do so, for an intimate supper, just the three of them. 

“Today she would’ve been 38,” Draco murmurs, his eyes focusing on the dying fire, rotating the stem of the glass between his fingers. 

“I wonder what she would’ve wanted to do,” Daphne says, her voice teetering on shaky. 

Pansy says, “Go to her favourite bakery, and get—” 

“Red velvet cake,” they say in unison, earning chuckles all around. 

Draco rubs a hand over his face, the final stages of exhaustion creeping in. Astoria never made a big deal about her birthday, and for the longest time Draco didn’t understand why. In Draco’s family, birthdays were an elaborate celebrated affair, a day of his favourite meal and cake. Every year he would ask Astoria if she wanted to do anything special, and she would always smile, cup her hand on his cheek and say, “Just being with you is perfect.”

He realises now that maybe for her, a birthday was a reminder of how little life she had left, the sands of time dribbling fast through the hourglass towards empty. Draco regrets all of those times when he allowed them to do nothing at all, wishing he could have given her more on those days, and appreciated that every year with her was a wondrous gift to him and Scorpius. 

“You doing okay?” Pansy asks, resting a hand on his knee.

Draco sighs. “Sure,” he says, and he finds that he means it. Today was difficult, but it wasn’t as heart-wrenching as he suspected it would be. 

Later, when he leaves, Pansy offers to walk him to his car. The air is humid and cold, smelling of incoming rain. Rain droplets fall on Draco’s cheek. “I still don’t understand why you use this thing,” she says with a quizzical shake of her head. 

“The nearest Tesco is a twenty minute drive, Pans,” Draco says with a chuckle. “It’s necessary.” 

“She loved this car,” Pansy says, running delicate fingertips over the bonnet. 

“That she did,” Draco agrees. He leans against the side of the car, kicking at the curb. “Thanks for inviting me.” 

“I know this is hard,” Pansy begins, hugging her arms around her waist, “but we didn’t want you to be alone.”

Draco pulls Pansy into a hug. His arms curl around her waist, nose filling with the smell of her perfume, a sweet floral scent that always makes Draco think of spring blooms at the Manor. “I appreciate it,” he whispers. 

Pansy walks back to her building, giving a last wave before she disappears inside. Draco settles into the car, pulling out his mobile. He’s missed a text from Harry. 

_Hope it goes well. _

Draco unlocks his mobile and writes back, It went as well as can be expected. 

The phone rings. “No, I’m not a harm to myself or others,” Draco drawls.

Harry chuckles. “I shall make sure to include that in the report.” 

“Keeping tabs on me, Potter? Repeating sixth year again?”

“As much as I would love to reminisce about the days of our youth, quite the contrary,” Harry replies. Draco laughs. 

“Be honest,” Harry says, as Draco stares at the droplets of rain cascading down the windshield. “How was it?”

“How about I tell you in person?” Draco replies. “I’m actually close to your flat.” 

“You didn’t Floo home?” Harry’s voice tinges with confusion. 

Draco smirks. “I drove. Be ready in about 15 minutes.”

**\--**

  
“Let me understand this,” Harry begins as he settles into the passenger side of the car, raking his fingers through damp hair. Draco has to clench his hand on the gear shift to not reach out and touch it. “You drove five hours to your best friend and sister-in-law’s flat?”

“Four and a half,” Draco corrects. He looks over his shoulder to allow a car to pass, and turns on his signal to pull onto the road. “I enjoy driving.”

“This isn’t just a leisurely drive on a Sunday, Draco,” Harry says, the incredulity deep in his voice. “You drove practically to the other side of the country.”

“Yes, thank you for that astute observation, Harry. The Aurors would be utterly lost without you at the helm.”

“Fuck off,” Harry laughs. “So where are we going?” 

“Up for an adventure?” Draco asks, tilting his lips into a devious grin. 

“Always,” Harry replies without hesitation. 

“Then we will go wherever the road takes us.”

**\--**

  
Sunlight covers and heats Draco’s face, awakening him with a jolt. He rubs his eyes to find himself surrounded by unfamiliar walls. The slight panic settles when he realises that he’s in Harry’s flat. A soft duvet falls off the side of the sofa, and his back is stiff. Draco rubs his sleep-crusted eyes, trying to get his bearings.

He’s also in desperate need of a piss.

Draco rises off the couch, pads down the hallway of the flat to find the toilet. The doors to the other bedrooms are open, showcasing various aesthetics of the Potter children. He identifies Albus’s room, filled with similar posters of interest as Scorpius—comic book heroes, Fortnite and Dungeons and Dragons paraphernalia. Draco realises he misses Scorpius, and hopes he’s doing well. He texted the day before, and while the exchange was brief, the picture showing the small cupcake celebrating Astoria was a wonderful addition to the day.

Last night, Harry shared the photo he received from Albus (of the boys splitting the cake together for Astoria’s birthday) while they drove on the motorway to a playlist on the mobile she gifted to Draco. He caught Harry closing his eyes as he listened to the music, wrapped in lyrics and melodic sound as if he was submerging himself in a calm, warm bath. 

Draco drove until they reached Stonehenge. It was empty and deathly quiet, the jagged rocks saluting a night sky peppered with so many stars it left Draco breathless. Together they walked in silence to the stones, observing them in the meek moonlight. There was an old magic thrumming in the very soil, and it vibrated into Draco’s muscles, settled something comforting into his bones. He’d never been there at night, never seen the stones wrapped in a blanket of darkness, never seen how beautiful it looked against the shadows of a velvet sky. 

“What do you miss the most?” Harry asked as they sprawled out on damp grass, searching through constellations above, stars burning bright without city light masking their stories.

“Waking up with someone next to me,” Draco whispered. The words slipped from his lips with such ease, his chest ached at the honesty of it. He missed waking up next to Astoria as the sunlight peeked through their bedroom sheers, golden rays feathering over her sleep-mussed hair. She always looked like the embodiment of perfection in those moments, the stress and pain vanished from her face. 

“It’s hard to be alone,” Harry agreed, his voice soft and sleepy. Heat radiating off his arm pressed against Draco’s, the bone of his wrist a persistent reminder of his presence. He shifted, his head resting closer to Draco’s shoulder, and Draco suppressed a shudder when Harry’s fingertips brushed over the back of his hand. 

Under the anaemic light of Harry’s spare bathroom, Draco stares at his reflection in the mirror. A set of deep bruised circles lies under his eyes and he wants to turn back time to a few hours before. He longs for the freedom of the stars and the night sky, of not having to worry about time and minutes passing before him. Draco wants desperately to see the sunrise paint the clouds in swirls of violet, pink and orange, with the press of Harry’s skin against his. 

A fragrant scent of coffee leads him into the large kitchen, walls fixed with white metro tiles and grey marble countertops. Harry’s standing with his long hair flopped in a messy bun, shirtless, his trackie bottoms slouching low off to one side, exposing the dip of his hip bone. Draco catches the leaves of the lily tattoo curling up his rib cage, almost blending with a trio of stags near Harry’s shoulder, and Draco has the urge to touch it, to glide his fingertips along each intricate line, to commit it to memory. 

He swallows around the lump in his throat. Draco had seen them before, when he came to Harry’s flat before the gig, taking herculean efforts to not stare at the expanse of exposed skin, and as a result only getting a glimpse at the tattoos. 

“Morning,” Draco says, worried his voice may betray him if he speaks any louder. Harry looks over his shoulder and smiles through sleepy eyes. 

“Coffee?” he asks, pointing to the cafetière. Draco nods and Harry fills a mug. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Both please,” Draco replies. Harry slides the milk and sugar across the counter as Draco settles down on a barstool at the island. 

“Sleep well?” 

Draco attempts to distract himself with the milk and sugar. “Sure. You?”

Harry hums through a drink of coffee, holding a chipped mug that wields a blinking “#1 Dad!” on the front, as he leans against the counter. Draco takes a sip, the bold flavour strong but with a hint of chocolate aftertaste. 

It’s divine. 

He can’t hide the moan that escapes as he closes his eyes, savouring the taste, licking his lips before chancing a longer sip. When he opens his eyes, Harry is staring at him with an intense gaze, blinking a couple of times and turning around. 

“Like it?” he asks, voice rough.

“Very much so,” Draco answers, heat crawling up his neck. “What is it?”

“It’s a bean from Yemen,” Harry explains. “It’s specifically grown to have the chocolate notes enhanced and then mixed with an Indonesian java bean. All of it done without chemicals. It’s better when it’s cold brewed. The heat from boiling water heightens the acidic tones, so you’ll get a more bitter palate.”

“Since when did you become a coffee connoisseur?” Draco asks, impressed. He’d never given coffee much of a thought outside of the cappuccinos he buys whenever he’s near a Pret and on the go somewhere in Muggle London. Astoria always admonished him for his simplicity towards the drink, stating that his French ancestors must be rolling in their graves. But he was an Englishman at heart, and no one could take him away from his love of earl grey.

Harry chuckles, green eyes bright. “I have spent much of my career doing nothing but attending boring, bureaucratic meetings. Sometimes you need Youtube to fill the day.” 

“A hardship, I’m sure,” Draco drawls, pulling another drink of coffee. “Merlin, from now on you’re in charge of coffee.” 

Harry tilts his head back and laughs, happy and delightful. Draco catches a glimpse of his bare shoulders, and notices the clench of his stomach as his laugh dissolves into chuckles. It makes Draco’s insides flutter and cheeks warm. 

He stands and sets the mug down on the kitchen island. “I should be going.” 

Harry’s smile fades fast, lips tilting to a frown. “Oh?” 

“I mean—” Draco stops, fumbling on the words. “I just figured you would be busy or—”

“No,” Harry says softly. “Not busy.”

Draco grins, pulling his mobile out of his pocket. “What’s your wi-fi password?” 

Harry furrows his eyebrows before replying, “Hedwig1234. With a capital H.”

Draco snorts. “You absolute imbecile. Do you realise how risky your password is? I hope you’re using WPA2."

“Hermione set it up.” 

“Ah, you’re safe then.” 

Harry smiles, taking a sip of his coffee. “Yup.” His reply is smug, the ‘p’ popping at the end. 

Draco continues to focus on his phone, as he finds Harry’s severe lack of clothing troubling and potentially all-consuming. It takes him three attempts to type in the password, and even longer to connect to the Google Home to cast. It doesn’t help that all he can see out of his peripheral is Harry giving his stomach an absent scratch, or rolling his neck in anticipation. 

Finally, music filters into the flat. Harry’s lips quirk and he calls out, “Hey Google. Volume 7.” 

Harry walks to the kitchen doorway, nodding his head towards the living room. “Sound’s better in there.”

They sit together in silence on the sofa, Harry at one end and Draco at the other. It’s like a chasm between them, a whirlpool of space, and Draco wants to swim closer, to fill the emptiness. Harry leans his head back, and closes his eyes, listening. Draco can’t take his eyes off of him. 

_I wrote me a book_  
_I hid the last page_  
_I didn't even look_  
_I think I locked it in a cage_  
_Wrote a novel_  
_Cause everybody likes to read a novel_

Astoria used to listen this song over and over when she first discovered it. She would go on about how it’s euphoric tones resonate like a nursery rhyme, and used to play it at the start of her day, an opening for her morning, a way to set forth the effort of meeting the sun once again. 

_I found the last page in the sky,_  
_Cold and sweet, like an apple_  
_Oh hello,_  
_Will you be mine?_  
_I haven't felt this alive in a long time_  
_All the streets are warm today_  
_I read signs_  
_I haven't been this in love in a long time_  
_The sun is up, the sun will stay_

“That was nice,” Harry murmurs. He rolls is his head to the side, a lazy smile on his lips. “Can you play it again?”

Draco smiles in return and nods. “Yeah, I can.”

**\--**

  
Draco doesn’t know when the texts became a part of his daily routine.

He supposes he can find out if he wants to—it’s in the history on his phone—the exact moment when Harry’s non-sequiturs and lyrics started infiltrating his life. Draco wakes in the morning to a jumble of thoughts, some more haphazard than others. Sometimes they come in the late evenings, just random questions like If you could go anywhere right now, where would you want to be? He begins to look forward to them, enjoys the way they keep him company when he’s alone in the house attempting to quell memories of Astoria.

_Be glad you never got a job @ the ministry. Bureaucracy is a sham. _

Draco smiles, and writes back, You should run for Minister of Magic.

The response is quick. _Fuck that. Filled my quota when I saved the world._

_Perhaps you could consider early retirement?_

“Your face has been preoccupied with your mobile since you got here. Who are you texting?” Pansy asks.

Draco invited her out for lunch to their favourite Italian restaurant, desperate to fill his days. There’s an ever-present hollowness in the house with Scorpius at Hogwarts and Astoria gone, and the silence wraps around Draco like a snake, making him restless and unsure. 

“No one,” Draco answers quickly, setting the mobile down. 

“Uh huh,” Pansy responds, unconvinced. She takes a long drink of her sparkling water. “You’ve been attached to that thing since we got here, but it’s no one?” 

Draco’s mobile vibrates against the table.

_your hair it's EVVVVVVVERYWHEREEEEEEEEEEEEEE screaming infidelities!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

He studies the text in confusion and writes back, _Can’t say I know that one. _

_You don’t know Dashboard Confessional?? Absolutely blasphemous. _

A link to the song accompanies the text. 

“Yes, it’s no one,” Draco replies, pocketing the mobile before Pansy asks further questions.

“Draco, please remember you’re a terrible liar,” Pansy drawls. “It’s one of your best qualities.” 

Draco texts Harry as he walks around Tesco alone, aimlessly searching up and down the aisles. 

_My Tesco is out of Jammie Dodgers. This is a bloody travesty. _

_What’s a bloody travesty is that you like jammie dodgers. Hob-Nobs are far superior. _

Absolutely not, Potter. I am mortally offended that you think otherwise. 

They come late at night, just as Draco drifts off to sleep against Lumosed stars on his ceiling.

_Favourite Radiohead album. Go._

_That’s easy. Amnesiac. _

_A moon full of stars and astral cars And all the figures I used to see_ _All my lovers were there with me All my past and futures_

_I used to go to sleep to this album when it came out._

Draco stares at the screen, squinting at the brightness in the darkness of his room. He closes his eyes, tries to conjure the image of a younger Harry sprawled out on his bed the first time Pyramid Song ever touched his ears, his eyes fluttering closed, a soporific smile on his face with Tom Yorke’s voice wrapped around him like a duvet on a cold winter’s night, and how all of it called to him like home.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
The wind off the coast is bitter and frigid, biting at Harry’s cheeks as he walks from the Apparition point close to the village. Draco’s house is only about a half mile walk from the point, but Harry forgot his scarf and, even with the warming charm, the air lapping off the beach stings.

Harry hasn’t been to Draco’s home since Astoria’s funeral. It’s odd to be back at this place again, knowing that the last time Harry was here, the village was mourning. Now it’s empty in the chilly weekend afternoon. Harry spots a few villagers walking around, exchanging happy greetings as they pass each other. 

There are rolling hills stretching as far as the eye can see, and an ever-persistent sound of the waves crashing against the break. Harry walks over cobblestone paths, takes a longer route than last time, studies the eroded buildings and various fishing crews distributed at the port. In the distance, he can see boats moving towards the harbour, riding along the glittering waters, snow caps in their wake. 

When Harry approaches Draco’s house, he can hear the soft murmur of music from inside. The wind’s bite is harsher the closer he gets to the seashore and he curses himself for leaving his scarf behind. He turns to look into the distance at the large expanse of water in front of the house, down to the place he stood with Draco the day of the funeral watching the sun set in silence.

The door opens before Harry can knock. He turns to see Pansy Parkinson standing in the doorway, holding a glass of red wine a shade as dark as the lipstick on her lips. Her large cream fisherman cable sweater falls off the side of her bare shoulder. 

“Um,” Harry mumbles, lifting his hand into an awkward wave. “Hi.”

Pansy leans against the door jamb, glancing over Harry with unabashed assessment in her eyes. Harry cards a hand through his long hair, wishing he had pulled it back. 

“He was worried you wouldn’t show,” Pansy says, her eyes trained on Harry, “but now I see what all the fuss is about.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows. “What are you—”

“Pans!” Draco calls from behind, “What in Merlin’s name are you doing with the door open? It’s freez—” He stops as Pansy opens the door further to reveal Harry standing outside. 

“Oh. Hi,” Draco says, a small smile tugging at his lips. It takes everything for Harry not to stare like a wally at the shawl collared emerald green jumper and dark blue jeans Draco’s wearing. He rakes a nervous hand through his hair. “I thought you—”

“Yeah, I informed him,” Pansy says lazily, shifting her glance between them, and rolling her eyes. “I’m going to go check on the food.” 

“Well, that was properly awkward,” Harry notes as Pansy walks away. He shoves his hands into his pockets to warm them. 

Draco shakes his head and sighs. “That’s Pansy for you. Come on in.” 

“Thanks. By the way, Hermione and Ron told me to tell you that you owe them a visit.” 

Draco runs a hand through his hair and nods. “I know. Things have been...complicated.” 

“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” Harry says, laughing at Draco’s dramatic sigh. 

The house looks the same as it did before, the curtains drawn to reveal a cobbled beach and concrete staircase leading down to a private shore. In the far horizon, fishing boats wade through the water, birds fly along the white caps. 

“You can set your coat wherever you’d like,” Draco says, waving to the living room in front of them. “Do you want something to drink?” 

“Sure,” Harry replies, folding his coat over the back of a wingback chair. The Great Gatsby sits over the arm, and a pair of reading glasses sit on the seat. They must be Draco’s.

“What would you like?” Draco asks, looking into the kitchen area around the corner, scratching at his elbow, and shifting on his feet. Harry realises Draco’s nervous.

“Whatever you’re having,” Harry says with ease. He points to Draco’s arms and furrows his eyebrows. “Alright there?”

“Yeah, just—” Draco sighs and shakes his head. “The last time I had people over was…”

Harry nods. “I appreciate the invite,” he says with reassurance, and points to the ceiling. “Who is this?” 

Draco smiles. “Sigur Ros.”

“They’re amazing.”

“That they are. They’re Icelandic, and they have created their own vocabulary for their songs. It’s based on this whole aesthetic they use alongside their music that translates to what they refer to as _Hopelandic_ and it’s very fascinating how—”

Pansy sticks her head around the corner, her hair falling over her shoulder. “Okay, enough flirting, let’s eat. Daphne and I are starving.” She turns around and heads back to the kitchen. 

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sometimes I question why I keep her around.”

“Because you love me!” Pansy yells from the kitchen. “Hurry or we are getting started without you!” 

Harry blinks at Draco and after a beat, they both laugh. 

“After you,” Draco says, with a dramatic wave of his hand, and Harry chuckles again as he heads to the kitchen.

**\--**

  
Harry stays into the evening. They all sit in the living room, sprawled out between the chairs and sofa, watching the sunset with the warmth of a fire in the hearth. Harry’s head swims from the wine he had at dinner, a blend that’s produced from a vineyard in France that, to his surprise, Draco owns.

“So let me get this right,” Harry says, leaning back into the softness of the couch, enveloped by pillows in a gentle hug. “You all own a vineyard in France? A whole vineyard. With grapes and all.”

“Well, to make wine, it requires grapes. That is the whole basis of the winemaking process. Without it, you cannot produce wine,” Draco says, a teasing note in his voice. 

Harry smirks and rolls his eyes. 

“It was one of the family’s lands,” Daphne explains. “But when Astoria left Hogwarts it became hers as a part of her inheritance. She asked us to join her in revitalising the venture, because it was in poor shape when she took over.” 

“Astoria loved that place so much,” Pansy murmurs, closing her eyes as she leans back into her chair. “It’s where she and Draco got married.”

Draco smiles into his glass of wine. “That was a good day,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah, I’m sure it was even better after we left,” Pansy says with a waggle of her eyebrows. 

“Oh sod off, Pansy,” Draco snipes, and everyone laughs. 

“Okay,” Daphne says with a groan as she lifts herself out of her seat. “It’s time we head home. I’m knackered, and I have a phone call early tomorrow with Julien.”

“Julien is a twat,” Pansy grumbles, before pulling herself up and walking over to Draco to give him a kiss on the cheek. She whispers something in his ear and he shakes his head and whispers back, “I know.” 

“Have a good night,” Daphne says, taking Pansy’s hand as she reaches for the Floo powder on the mantel, throwing it into the fireplace and disappearing. Harry is now very aware he and Draco are alone. 

The silence is deafening. 

“Refill?” Draco asks, and Harry shakes his head. 

“As brilliant as it is, I do need to get home in one piece.” 

“Fair enough. Coffee?” 

Harry smiles. “Yes, please.”

Draco disappears into the kitchen and Harry takes the moment alone to look at the photos. He finds the one of Astoria and Draco standing in front of the Muggle car, with their happy smiles and young faces. Harry didn’t know what to make of that photo when he first saw it, but now all Harry can do is sense the happiness on Draco’s face, a blindingly bright smile of love. 

He continues to study the others—one of Draco holding a baby Scorpius in his hands, the swaddled newborn asleep as Draco peers down onto him with an overwhelming sense of affection. Another of Scorpius as a toddler, running into the frame and waving happily before running out of the frame, his curly baby hair falling into his face as he runs amok. 

Harry is staring at a photo of Astoria and Draco on their wedding day when Draco comes back into the room holding two steaming mugs. He stands next to Harry, handing over one mug, tracking his gaze to the picture. 

“I take it that was your wedding day,” Harry says, lifting his hand with the mug towards the picture. 

Draco nods, blowing over the rim of the cup. “It was.”

Astoria’s dress is something out of a fairytale—layers of lace and flowing fabrics, train so long that it stretches out behind her and out of the frame. A teardrop bouquet, all white, rests between her hands. Her long hair is pulled up halfway, loose curls cascading over her shoulders. 

She stands in the frame looking serious for a moment, and then squints into the distance for a second, her head tilting back in carefree and euphoric laughter, before she stares back into the camera, the wide smile etched on her face. It loops back to the beginning. 

“Pansy and I were making obscene gestures off screen,” Draco muses. There’s a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “Astoria’s mother was not pleased.” 

Harry tries to imagine a young Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson standing behind the camerawizard doing everything they can to get the precise reaction they intended from Astoria. He tries to envision a Draco whose happiness is weightless and unrestrained on such a celebratory day. It’s different than the person who Harry knew as a child, and different than the man he knows now. 

“She looks happy,” Harry says, eyes trained on the photo looping back to Astoria’s serious expression, hair shimmering in the sun. 

Quiet stretches between them. Harry turns to find Draco’s intent gaze on him. 

“She was,” he says, voice mournful, his face stricken. “She really was.” 

Draco’s hair has grown out, falling delicately over his forehead, brushing the tips of his ears. His lips form a small frown, eyes shining against the firelight and Harry cannot shake how much he wants to make the pain fade away. 

Harry’s reaches up to tuck back a stray strand that’s fallen over Draco’s cheek. Draco’s grey eyes widen a little, and then shift into a more heated stare. He tilts his head so that Harry’s knuckles land on his chin, a whisper away from the corner of his mouth, and Harry follows the movement of Draco’s tongue licking his lips, watches the way his teeth catch along the bottom.

The urge to be closer makes Harry ache. He has the urge to wrap his hand around the back of Draco’s neck, pulling him close until their bodies are flush. In the corner of Harry’s eye he can see the movement of the photo begin another loop, and he stops himself from making a mistake. 

Harry drops his hand. “I should go,” he murmurs. 

Draco blinks, dazed, and nods. “Right. Um,” he turns away and clears his throat. “You can use the Floo.” 

“I think the walk will be good for me,” Harry admits, voice quiet. 

Draco nods again, sucking in a deep breath. “Right. Did you— I mean. Do you want company?” 

Harry can’t help but smile. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to my pal **aibidil** for the wifi password and dashboard confessional lyrics. this chapter wouldn't be awesome without your contribution. <3


	11. Chapter 11

**  
**-February 2020-**  
**

  
Ron and Hermione insist that Harry come over that Sunday, Ron demanding that, “We haven’t seen you in forever, mate, and it’s about bloody time we catch up.” Harry does a mental shuffle through his calendar and realises that he hasn’t seen Ron or Hermione since he was at the Burrow helping to ring in the new year.

Harry arrives for dinner with a six-pack of some locally brewed beer, a brand that Tracy raved about at work the other day as they were going over Harry’s schedule of meetings. Harry happened to mention off handedly that Ron was looking into brewing his own, which set her off on a personal dissertation on the quality of micro brews and their lengthy process, and how this particular brewery was lauded for their organic approach to brewing.

Harry couldn’t give an erumpent’s arse about beer as long as it tasted good, but it was a wonderful way to procrastinate discussing the mundane meeting he was about to attend regarding procuring funds for the new Auror department.

Hermione is talking about the new team she’s training at St Mungo’s when Harry’s thoughts drift to Draco. How Draco’s eyes hid in the dark night as they walked together to the Apparition point, how his hair seemed to turn more silver against the dim glow of the Lumos at the end of his wand guiding them through the hills of the village. How they stood under the moonlight in silence, and how Draco leaned forward close to Harry’s ear and whispered, “Thank you,” his breath warm and inviting. 

“Did you know that Draco owns a bloody vineyard?” Harry blurts, apropos of nothing. 

Hermione blinks. “Er, yes?” she answers, bemused. 

“Oh,” Harry replies, looking down at his plate, stabbing a fork into his spaghetti. 

Hermione slants a glance sideways to Ron, tilting her head towards Harry. 

“Harry, what is this about?” Hermione asks, her voice tinged with concern. 

“Yeah, how did you find out about Draco’s vineyard?” Ron adds, just as bewildered.

Harry leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s very aware that Ron and Hermione don’t know Harry’s been spending time with Draco. His intention wasn’t to keep this from anyone, he just couldn’t figure out how to bring it up. How does he tell his two best friends that there’s a swirl of feelings happening whenever he’s around Draco, how he’s invaded his thoughts, even his dreams? Harry flushes thinking about the intensity of those dreams, the press of skin and the heat of lips.

“Harry? Are you alright?” Ron asks. 

Harry lifts his glasses and scrubs his face. “Yeah, fine,” Harry says, taking a long pull of his beer. “Draco and I have been hanging out, that’s all. He told me about the vineyard when I went to his place last weekend for dinner.”

“How is he doing?” Hermione asks, her tone curious, resting her chin on her hand. “He texted me the other day after his mind Healer appointment, but other than that I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

“He’s okay, I think,” Harry says, eyes focused on the beer bottle in front of him, bitten-down fingernails tearing at the label. 

“What do you and him talk about?” Ron asks, sounding incredulous. 

Harry shrugs again. “I dunno. Music. Astoria. Sometimes Ginny. You know...stuff.” 

He continues to peel the label off the bottle, flicking the wet paper away onto the dining room table. Harry doesn’t realise his leg is bobbing until Hermione reaches over and places a calming hand on it. When he looks up, he sees his friends smiling. 

“I think,” Hermione begins, and looks at Ron for a moment. “We think you are good for each other.” 

Harry huffs a laugh. “I wasn’t informed that I needed anyone’s well wishes.”

Ron chuckles. “You don’t, mate, but we’re giving it to you, anyway.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You weren’t here when Astoria was alive. She was everything to him. She balanced him. Draco was an absolute wanker as a kid, bloody hell, so I didn’t believe Hermione when she told me how much he’d changed. But when he came over, we talked and he apologised, and...honestly? He was just a totally different man.” 

“Astoria worried about him. She knew her health wasn’t getting better, and she knew he was in denial,” Hermione continues quietly. Her mouth pinches, and Ron places a hand on her arm. “He thought he could help her. Save her. And she worried that when she...you know, that he would blame himself.”

Harry sits, thinking of Draco and Astoria sitting in Ron and Hermione’s house by the fire, laughing and cheerful. How they all found a way through their own pasts and could share space together without their personal histories weighing them down. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry asks. He tries to tamp down the defensive note in his voice, but he can’t help but feel somewhat betrayed. “Scorpius is Albus’s closest friend. It’s not like I wasn’t aware of Draco’s existence.” 

Hermione’s smile is sad. “Astoria was a patient of mine long before we became friends and you were dealing with so much with Ginny and the separation. It just didn’t seem fitting to tell you about it when you had so much going on yourself.” 

“Yeah, mate,” Ron agrees. “We weren’t hiding it from you. We worried about you. Both of you, even if it was separate.”

It occurs to Harry that Draco was going through Astoria’s illness at the same time that Harry’s marriage was falling apart. That in the same timeline they were each dealing with the stress of life’s unexpected tendency to grip at someone’s soul and stretch it to see if it would shred. This whole time Harry’s been with Draco, they’ve each been trying to find themselves again, in their own ways. Maybe they have found it in each other. 

“This is so weird,” Harry admits, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks between his two friends, two of the most important people in his life, two people who have been there in the shit and who understand. “So we’re good for each other, huh?”

Hermione chuckles and nods. “More than I think you even realise, Harry.”

**  
**-March 2020-**  
**

  
Draco meets with Pansy and Daphne at a cafe in Diagon Alley, a new farm-to-table restaurant that’s advertised to add that magical twist to a Muggle concept.

The restaurant’s entrance sits at the corner junction of a new building with residential flats sitting above. Deep blue cerulean stretches around the sides, sparkling even in the lacklustre cloudy day, and flowers both magical and Muggle sit underneath long rows of curtainless windows, undulating against the cool breeze. A sandwich board sits near the entrance to the shop, swirling script proclaiming the specials of the day.

“I seriously hope this place will not serve us kneazle or something like that,” Draco mutters to Daphne. 

“Nah, they only do that in America,” she says with a wink.

Draco tilts his head back and laughs. It’s an unreasonably warm day for March, the scarf around Pansy’s neck hanging just for fashion. The silky lavender gives her hair a striking blue-black hue.

The restaurant is busy for a weekday, but the aesthetic is rather nice. Succulents float in the air in mason jars, and long benches stretch wall to wall in the tiny space. In the middle of the tables, jars of wildflowers sit, surrounded by graceful circles of lush greens. 

“It’s called family style,” Pansy explains as she settles into her seat. “The idea is about unity with a meal.” 

Draco gives an appreciative hum. It reminds him of meals in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, a mess of bodies gathering around, elbows and shoulders bumping into each other. When he was younger, Draco used to complain about the lack of space, but as he grew older, he realised that deep down he looked forward to that time at Hogwarts. It was the one place where everyone could set aside differences and just exist. Draco noticed that his life had turned upside down when even the meals at Hogwarts couldn’t bring a sense of secret comfort for him. 

“So are we here to discuss the wedding plans?” Draco asks, clasping his hands on the table. “Have you settled on a date?” 

Pansy glances at Daphne for a moment before she says, “We aren’t here to talk about the wedding.” 

Draco leans back searching between the two women. “It’s not cancelled, is it?”

“Of course not,” Pansy scoffs with a wave of her hand. 

“But you said we were meeting—”

“We used that to get you to come out,” Daphne interrupts. “I guess you could say we are here today as an...Well—” 

“An intervention,” Pansy finishes. 

“Er,” Draco starts, “About what am I in need of an intervention?”

“That’s easy,” Pansy replies. “Harry Potter.” 

Draco gapes, his mouth opening and closing like an idiot. 

“Please close your mouth, Draco; it’s unbecoming,” Pansy says, her nose wrinkling. 

Their server, a young bloke with dark brown hair and a dazzling smile, shows up with glasses of water, and Pansy says, “We will need the wine list. It’s going to get intense in here.” She winks at the server, who nods politely before glancing to Draco, his smile turning more flirtatious as he walks away.

“So yes, darling, we are here to discuss some things,” Pansy continues without missing a beat. 

“We understand that things have been difficult since Astoria passed,” Daphne explains in a gentle tone. “We’ve been concerned for you. Being in that house all by yourself isn’t good for you.” 

“I’m going to the mind Healer appointments, aren’t I?” Draco snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m doing everything I can.”

The server returns with the wine list and Pansy orders a bottle of red. Draco is too overwhelmed to argue about her choice. He fucking hates merlots, but at this point he doesn’t care. 

“Do you still get letters from her?” Daphne asks. 

Draco nods. He has been receiving more the last two months. Letters that talk about her day when she wrote them, recalling memories that they had together in the past. Their appearance is more like journal entries, rather than requests or inquiries. Draco reads them before he goes to sleep sometimes, wakes with them clinging to his chest, wrinkled and a little more worn around the edges.

“You know she’s always wanted you to be happy, right?” Daphne continues. “That’s why she did this. She’s trying to encourage you to be happy.”

“What the hell does this have to do with Harry?” Draco demands, his voice rising. He glances around the restaurant to make sure no one else has heard him. He leans forward on the table and eyes Daphne and Pansy with suspicion. “Where are you going with this?”

“You fancy him,” Pansy says. “It’s bloody obvious.” 

“Oh my god,” Draco says, leaning on the table and covering his face in his hands. “This isn’t happening.”

“And he most certainly fancies you,” Daphne adds. 

“This is not happening,” Draco repeats with a shake of his head. 

“Oh yes it is, Draco,” Pansy insists. “It’s called an intervention for a reason.” 

Draco tilts his head to the ceiling and takes three deep breaths. “Pans,” he moans. “What the actual fuck.”

The young bloke is back just as Draco finishes his sentence, and Daphne gives an apologetic look, while Pansy continues to direct her classic piercing stare right at Draco.

“Are we ready to order?” the server asks, tilting on one hip. His gaze travels over Draco again, and Draco resists rolling his eyes. 

Pansy snorts, and orders a couple of appetisers off the menu. As the server leaves, Draco shakes his head, annoyed. 

“This is an utter waste of time,” he mutters, taking a long gulp of wine. “What is the point of this ‘intervention’, anyway?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Pansy says, resting an arm on the table, the other propped up on her elbow. She ticks up her fingers, “One, you have a terrible penchant for self-destruction. No, no,” she continues with a delicate shake of her head, as Draco attempts to interrupt. “That isn’t up for argument, it’s a fact. Two, you have never believed you deserve anything good since the war.”

“I think that would be more like, 1B,” Daphne observes. “It’s pretty much a subset of 1, anyway.”

“Too right, my love,” Pansy agrees, stealing a quick kiss from Daphne. 

“Number 2 is that you have always been in utter denial when it comes to Potter, but I didn’t know how badly he’d got it for you until you had him over the other night.”

“He doesn’t—it’s not—I mean,” Draco sputters. “No,” he manages with a shake of his head. “It’s not like that. We’re just…”

Pansy raises her manicured eyebrows. 

“Friends,” Draco finishes lamely. “We’re friends.” 

Just as Pansy opens her mouth, their food appears in small brown ceramic bowls filled with a spring risotto, and a tray of prosciutto wrapped asparagus. Draco revels in the moment of reprieve from the barrage that is Pansy and Daphne. 

“That’s a load of bollocks,” Pansy drones as the server leaves the table. She keeps a vigilant watch on the young man staring at Draco. “I know this because that bloke over there has been eye-fucking you and you aren’t even remotely interested.” 

“I could literally be his father,” Draco argues, rolling his eyes. “I’m not interested in shagging lads who are barely out of Hogwarts.”

“Denial must taste sweet from where you’re sitting,” Daphne replies her voice silky smooth as she focuses on cutting up a spear of asparagus into small delicate bites. 

Draco squints at Daphne for a moment and shakes his head. “I’m not in denial.”

“Oh, yes you are, darling,” Pansy huffs in her matter-of-fact voice. Draco hates that voice. He hates it in particular when Pansy uses it on him. 

“Whatever,” Draco snaps, gulping down his wine and refilling his glass. “This is an utter waste of time.” 

“You’ve said that already,” Daphne notes. “Which means you know it’s not.” 

Pansy sets down her fork, and stares at Draco. Her eyes have softened, her expression meaningful and concerned. “There’s nothing wrong with feelings, Draco. You’re allowed to have them.”

“We think,” Daphne starts, glancing at Pansy for a brief moment. “We think that Harry’s been helpful. You seem more relaxed. Happy, even.” 

Draco isn’t sure if he would agree that he has been happy. Has he? There’s a sense of calm every time that he’s with Harry, and he finds that he looks forward to being with Harry. Harry doesn’t view Draco like he’s broken, even when Draco is certain he will shatter any moment. And then it hits him with an overwhelming sensation so intense his stomach feels like it’s launching out of his body: that when Draco is with Harry, he knows he’s safe.

_Safe._

“So he’s...he’s good for me?” Draco asks quietly, eyes focused on the stem of his wine glass. 

Pansy reaches across the table and wraps around Draco’s hands. When their eyes meet, she smiles. “Absolutely.” She pulls back and uses her fork to point at the food. “Now, eat. Lunch is on me.”

**  
**-April 2020-**  
**

  
Ginny and Mark announce their engagement to the family about a year after her divorce.

Harry learned about it first, when the folded parchment soared into Harry’s office at the Ministry a week before. Tracy was going over last-minute details of Harry’s schedule for the next day, when the letter sailed right into Harry’s hand.

“Ah, Earl must’ve stopped by. I wonder why,” Harry said, furrowing his eyebrows. 

Tracy leaned back in her chair, balancing a stack of parchment with perfect precision on her crossed leg. She pointed a finger at the letter. “Probably coming to lodge a complaint about the name Earl. How in the love of Merlin did you come up with that?” 

Harry grinned. “The kids kept complaining about what we would name him and I had to come up with something quick.” He shrugs. “I was making tea.” 

“Creative,” Tracy deadpanned. “Hearing your experiences about being a father to a small tribe has officially made me realise I never want kids.”

But Harry wasn’t paying attention to Tracy as he read over the note in Ginny’s familiar curly slanted script. Instead he was trying to balance himself from the sinking in his stomach, the sudden heaviness of his legs. He was grateful to be sitting down. 

Later, alone in his flat with nothing but the lights of the city pooling onto the wood floors, and a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, he rang Ginny to offer his congratulations. She was quiet, reserved. Nervous, Harry realised. She was nervous. 

“This won’t change anything,” Ginny whispered.

“I know,” Harry whispered back. 

“You know I’ll—” Her voice wavered for a moment and silence filled the other line. “You know I’ll always love you.”

Harry’s throat clenched, and he closed his eyes to stave off the prickling sensation of tears that threatened to form at the soft murmur of her voice, her admission of loyalty. 

“I’ll always love you, too.”

Ginny looks stunning now, her smile joyful as she gathers around friends and family in a large function room at a new wizarding pub in Diagon Alley. Mark stands close by as they meander through the crowd, exchanging hugs and thank yous, an ever present smirk on his face. Music fills the large room, something slow and harmonic, and Harry leans against the back wall, watching the crowd gather in cheer.

“You okay?” Ron asks with a gentle bump of his shoulder. 

Harry nods, eyes focused on Ginny. “Course.”

“I mean it, mate. This is pretty weird, don’t you reckon? Attending your ex-wife’s engagement party?”

Harry rolls his head to Ron’s lips turned down and sad. He shrugs, turning back to the crowd. “It’s unconventional, but since when has anything in my life ever been normal?”

Ron takes a long pull of his beer, peering out into the enthusiastic crowd. “She’s worried about you.” 

Harry hums, taking his time with his whisky sour. “I’m glad for her. I want her to be happy.”

“I know,” Ron says with reassurance. “We just want to make sure _you’re_ happy too.” 

The crowd gathers to dance, everyone lining up and moving in a synchronised motion. Ginny’s hair flings over her shoulder as she tilts her head back, hips swaying to the music. Harry swallows around the lump in his throat, his vision blurring at the absolute joy emanating off of her, a radiant glow that could fill the space of the room alone. 

He blinks a few times to bury the tears that threaten to spill, shaking his head. “I’ll be alright.” 

Ron nods, considering the words. “Yeah, you will.” His smile is sincere and hopeful when he says, “You’ll be okay because you’re not in this alone.”

Hermione spins on the dance floor, crooking a finger at Ron, a drunken sultry smile on her face. “And I am being summoned,” he announces, setting his empty glass on an abandoned table. “You coming along?”

“Yeah, in a minute,” Harry replies with a laugh. “Want to see what I’m up against.” 

Ron walks backwards to the dancing crowd shaking his shoulders to the music, before turning around, strolling long strides to Hermione. He wraps his arms around her waist, gives her a dramatic dip, and she cackles loud and elated. They kiss when Ron pulls her back up. 

It hits him—it’s _that_, that Harry and Ginny have lost. That inseparable love. Somehow, through it all, Ron and Hermione have continued to find everything they need in each other, and only each other. A tinge of loneliness spreads through him with the melancholy of reality.

His mobile buzzes in his pocket, and Harry looks down to see a text from Draco, warm relief thrumming through him, pacifying the pensive throb in his veins. If Harry had any insight into his present life when he was a lonely and broken child just out of a war, if he had knowledge that he’d be standing here right now watching Ginny stare at another man like he stole the wonders of the world just for her, that the comfort he would need in the midst of the fray would be a text from Draco Malfoy, he would’ve laughed and laughed. 

But Harry isn’t a child of a war, and he’s not married to Ginny anymore, and his heart swells with affection when he sees the way she cups Mark’s cheek before leaning in for a lingering kiss. He clutches onto his mobile a little tighter, thinking happiness comes in the strangest ways, when it’s least expected.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
Tulips surround Draco everywhere, rows filled with bursts of red-orange, magenta, and pink as far as his eyes will take him. They blend into the distance, a soft blotted blur on the horizon. The sun is setting now, colouring the clouds in the setting evening, and Draco takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with warm air.

The first time he had ever seen the tulip fields was with Astoria. They had walked together for hours, surrounded by a wondrous coloured fantasy, filling Draco with a sense of freedom and glee he had taken for granted in his childhood. It was one of the first excursions Astoria insisted he join her on, just a long weekend to Holland, brandishing a Portkey before he could consider declining the offer. 

He’s alone this time, nothing but a vast expanse of blooms, and the loneliness fills inside of him, so instantaneous his body is a glass overflowing with the sudden onslaught of poured water. It tightens in his stomach, aches in his knees and Draco clenches his shirt, bends over at the near unbearable twinge of muscles. He attempts to take a steady, solid breath, but it burns in his lungs, claws at his throat. 

Gentle, warm hands brush through his hair, and in a flash the pain disappears. He’s rejuvenated, jolted alive, and when he straightens up, he’s staring into Harry’s bold green eyes. His fingertips grace Draco’s cheek, over his chin, thumb resting beneath his bottom lip.

“Hi,” Harry says, lips stretching into a blinding smile. “I’ve been looking for you.” 

“What?” Draco whispers, mystified. His hand reaches up to grip Harry’s wrist, touch his pulse to ensure he’s here. He can’t live with the idea that this could be a mirage, a trick of the brain. 

Harry doesn’t answer, just leans closer; Draco’s heartbeat shifts into a heavy gallop in his chest. When their mouths touch, there’s an electrifying hum that ripples through Draco’s body, and his knees grow weak. Harry smells of sunshine and spicy aftershave, and Draco wants to learn it all, map these small details to every cell of his body.

The grace of the kiss doesn’t last, turning intense when Draco slips his tongue between Harry’s lips. An audible groan vibrates between them, and Draco shifts closer to Harry’s warm body, flushing their chests together, their arms weaving around each other. 

Draco is giddy with excitement, as if he has taken a whole universe into the palm of his hands, as if the fates have aligned just for him to have Harry in his arms, Harry’s lips trailing wet kisses down Draco’s chin and neck. He moans louder when Harry bites into the junction of his neck and shoulder in the growing darkness of the tulip field. 

“Listen to you,” Harry murmurs against his skin, squeezing his palms on Draco’s hips. “You’re so—”

The sky rips with the sound of a roaring alarm, tinny noises of a familiar distorted and compressed wordless musical tone. Draco pulls back, glancing around in confusion, and the roar grows louder and louder, almost unbearable in his ears—

Draco awakens with a sharp gasp, eyes snapping open to his star-lumosed ceiling, the ringtone of his mobile roaring in his ear. Draco has left it off silent in case Scorpius calls, and he scrambles to reach for the phone before it switches to voicemail. 

“Hello?” he answers, voice sleep-rasped and groggy. The tightness of his pyjama bottoms strains against his erection, and Draco works hard to ignore the discomfort. The constricted ache wins and he reaches into his boxers to adjust his stubborn dick.

“Draco? Did I wake you?” Harry asks, voice slurred. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to talk but if you’re sleeping—” 

Draco bolts up in his bed, heat flushing through his chest. “No, it’s fine,” he blurts, wide awake. He has the panicked, illogical thought Harry knows he was just dreaming about snogging him in a field of fucking flowers like some sappy rom-com Muggle movie. He clears his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Ummmmmm,” Harry answers with a drunken laugh. “Maybe? I don’t know. Ginny’s engaged. Did you know that?”

Draco’s stomach dips. “No, I didn’t,” he answers. He realises he hasn’t properly spoken to Harry in almost two weeks, the convenience of being able to snap off a quick text to whenever and wherever they want all but eliminating the need for phone calls. But the one thing Harry never mentions during their flirting banter or their late contemplative textual chats is his ex-wife. The fact that Harry is ringing Draco in the middle of the night to talk about her is signal enough to Draco that Harry is far from okay. Still, he repeats, “Are you okay?”

“You asked me that already,” Harry says with a sigh. There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “Do you ever feel like everyone around you is moving on and you’re just stuck?”

_All the time_, Draco thinks. 

“Like, I’m happy for her,” Harry continues before Draco responds. “I’m really happy for her. I want her to be happy. But I wonder…” He trails off, the sentence left unfinished. 

“Harry,” Draco prods gently. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Harry whispers. “It’s weird. All of it. I got this flat, and it’s always empty, and what the fuck am I doing? Where the hell am I going? Fuck, sorry. I’m really drunk right now.” 

Draco flings back the sheets of his bed and walks towards the fireplace in the living room. The desperation of Harry’s voice is raw and unbearable, and Draco doesn’t register what he’s doing until he’s in Harry’s living room, having Flooed over without even telling him.

Harry’s sprawled on his sofa, hair pulled up in a sloppy bun, thick strands falling over his cheek as one leg hangs off the side, a bare foot resting on the floor. A single lamp is on, the living room filled with a dim light. He makes a slow turn toward Draco and squints in the dark. “Draco,” he mutters, into his mobile. “I think I’m so drunk I see you in my living room.”

Draco rolls his eyes and ends the call. “No, you git. I’m actually in your living room. I just Flooed over.”

“Draco,” Harry says, voice slow, stretching out his name. “You’re fairly undressed.”

Shit. Draco didn’t even consider that all he had on was pyjama bottoms. He was so focused on the brokenness of Harry’s voice he didn’t even bother putting slippers on. What the hell is wrong with him? 

“Did you do it for me?” Harry asks his voice teasing, as he lifts himself up in slow motion. 

Draco rolls his eyes. “I was asleep. You called me. I came over.”

“I’m not complaining,” Harry says, leaning back into the sofa, eyes roving over Draco’s bare chest. It takes everything Draco has not to rush to Harry and climb on top of his lap and snog him like a besotted teenager. 

Draco distracts himself with helping Harry out. He goes into the kitchen and fills a glass with water, which Harry accepts with gratitude. Draco sits next to Harry on the sofa, granting himself a healthy space, and waits as Harry hungrily gulps down his drink. 

“What’s going on?” Draco asks. “If I’m to be woken up at fuck thirty in the morning, you can at least try to explain what happened.”

Harry shrugs, closing his eyes and resting his head on the couch. “Ginny’s getting married and she’s happy. Ron and Hermione are happy. Everyone is happy.” He rolls his head to Draco, eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He moves closer, and Draco holds his breath. “Are you happy?”

Draco barks a surprised laugh. “Harry,” he says, weighing his words, “I’m a ridiculous mess on my best days. I haven’t really evaluated any happiness factors yet.”

Harry reaches up and brushes back the fringe on Draco’s forehead, eyes searching over his face with meaning. “I like that you’re a mess.”

“Thanks,” Draco scoffs, but smiles. 

“And I really like you,” Harry whispers, leaning closer. 

Oh fuck. Harry’s eyes are lidded as he closes the space between them, his hand resting on Draco’s thigh. Draco’s stomach somersaults, a sudden roar pounding in his ears. His brain betrays him and thinks about how just a few minutes before he was dreaming about this, about Harry’s lips on him, all over his skin. 

“Hey,” Draco says, resting a hand on Harry’s chest. “Why don’t we get you to bed? You look tired.”

Harry’s eyebrows wrinkle, his eyes flashing a mixture of embarrassment and rejection. He takes a deep breath, turning away from Draco and nodding. “Bed. Right.” 

“Harry—”

“No, you’re right. I should sleep. I’m sorry about—” 

“Goddamnit, Harry, _hush_,” Draco interrupts in a firm tone, reaching out for his wrist. “You’re pissed out of your mind, you’re an emotional wreck, and to be honest, you look like goblin shit. You need sleep.” Draco stands and gives a gentle tug at Harry’s hand. Harry wobbles up, losing his footing, and Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s waist to keep him from toppling over. 

Draco chuckles. “Oh, I am lucky I didn’t let this go further. You most likely would’ve thrown up on me.”

Harry rests his forehead on Draco’s shoulder. “Shuddup.”

Draco sighs, gliding his fingers over the nape of Harry’s warm neck. He reeks of booze, his hair damp with sweat, and Draco is in so much trouble. Even his subconscious is playing tricks on him with that stupid dream. He tries to fight the urge, tries to reason with himself not to do it, but his heart wins the battle with his mind when he turns and leaves a gentle kiss on Harry’s temple. 

“Sleep,” he whispers. Harry nods but doesn’t make any point to move. Draco smiles and says, “Some of us would like to get back to bed. Preferably before the sun comes up.” 

The curtains are open in Harry’s room, streams of yellow street light pooling over the wooden floors. Harry flops onto the unmade bed fully clothed, flinging his glasses at the bedside table and throws an arm over his eyes with a groan. Draco takes extra care to remove his shoes and tugs the duvet to cover him.

When Draco pulls the duvet over Harry’s chest, he reaches out for Draco, eyes still hidden and murmurs, “Stay. Please.”

Draco inhales a deep breath, a feeble attempt to sooth the sudden overwhelming electric thrum spreading over every inch of his body. “Okay. I’ll take the sofa.”

Harry shakes his head, removing his arm and opening his eyes. Even in the near-dark room, they are bright and illuminating. “No,” Harry says, “Stay here.” He pats next to him. “Don’t want to wake up alone,” he mutters, voice sleep-heavy.

Draco nods, but Harry’s closed his eyes again. “Alright,” he says, voice shaky and rough. He climbs underneath the duvet, settles his head into the extra pillow, attempting to swallow around the place where his heart lodged itself in his throat.

Harry turns on his side, clasping his hand over Draco’s, his breathing turning measured and even. A soft snore soon follows. 

Draco watches as Harry’s face relaxes, and tries to calm the vibration inside of his bones, the rapid beating of his heart, to focus on the twitch of Harry’s hand, the touch of their fingers laced together.

When Draco falls asleep, it’s to the warmth of Harry’s hand holding his own.


	12. Chapter 12

**  
**-April 2020-**  
**

  
Harry wakes to a too-bright, too-warm sun cascading over his face as an aggressive reminder of all the mistakes he made the prior night. He considers, in this dizzying, near vomiting, head-splitting juncture of his life, that if he should ever swear off anything, it should be alcohol.

But then Harry’s senses kick in and he realises that the gift of magic has hangover potions. He reaches with his eyes closed to retrieve his glasses. Harry still gives great contemplation to the question of whether he should chance the ever-blinding light, and decides that, if he can defeat Voldemort, he can at least gather the courage to bull through finding a goddamn hangover potion. 

It doesn’t take long, to Harry’s shock, because two phials sit on the bedside table for him alongside a glass of water. Harry guzzles them down with grateful reverence, letting out a happy sigh as the waves of nausea, the piercing headache, and the dull muscle aches fade away into just overwhelming exhaustion from lack of proper sleep the night before. He sips on the water and raises his eyebrows in approval. It’s crisp and cool, tinged with a light lemon flavour.

Harry stretches the ache out of his back, scratching the ever present five o’clock shadow on his chin, and trying hard to rally himself for a much-needed shower. 

Nothing that the sweet blessed creation of coffee won’t assist with. As Harry untangles himself from the twisted bedsheets and duvet, he realises he’s still in last night’s clothing, and wrinkles his nose in disgust. 

“Shower first,” he mutters aloud. “Coffee second.” 

Harry pads towards his dresser to gather the appropriate items, halting when he hears the dulcet sounds of music coming from the living room. His eyes shift to the closed bedroom door and, with a quick Accio, he shields his wand behind his back before cautiously opening the door. 

The music is soft and instrumental, and Harry recognises it in an instant. He showed Albus this band a year ago, right before they travelled to Astoria’s— 

Draco is in Harry’s kitchen, his back turned, wearing an ultramarine jumper and dark washed jeans, his slightly wet hair a sign that he must have had a shower. Harry relinquishes the hold on his wand as the events of the night before rush back to him all at once. 

Harry, pissed out of his mind, calling Draco. Harry telling Draco about Ginny’s engagement. Harry seeing Draco topless in his living room in nothing but low sitting pyjama bottoms, long expanses of skin on display filling Harry with an overwhelming sense of want, like a burning fire inside of him. Harry unable to recall a time he had felt anything like that before. Harry telling Draco he liked him. Harry leaning closer and closer, hoping he could fulfill all of those dreams he had kept locked away inside a dark, secret place in his mind. 

Then Harry remembers Draco helping him to bed. Draco lying next to him until Harry fell asleep, so he wasn’t alone. That Draco did all of this because Harry asked him to. 

“Morning,” Harry manages, his voice sleep-rough. His tongue sits cotton-laden and heavy from the hangover potion and there’s a strong need to brush his teeth. He sets his wand on top of the island countertop. 

Draco starts and turns around, eyes wide before they relax. “Morning,” he replies, a small smirk appearing on his lips. “Coffee?” He nods to the two takeaway cups on the counter in front of him, a bacon sarnie sitting next to it. 

“God, yes,” Harry groans, accepting the proffered cup. The coffee has the proper amount of milk and no sugar. Harry furrows his eyes at the drink and says, “How did you know—”

Draco shrugs, spending more time than necessary on his own coffee before he replies, “I pay attention.” 

Harry smiles, his grip tightening around the cup. “Thank you.”

Draco nods, leaning a hip against the kitchen island, slipping one hand in his pocket while deftly holding the coffee cup in the other. Harry can see small wet spots around the neck of his jumper, from Draco’s hair, which curls a little when it’s wet like this. Harry wants to brush his fingers through it, wants to know if it’s as soft as it looks. 

He tucks a messy tangle of his own behind an ear and distracts himself with drinking his caffeinated beverage. 

The silence spans for an eternity. When Harry tries to speak, Draco does at the same time. 

“You like Explosions in the Sky?” 

“Are you feeling any better?”

Harry clamps his mouth shut, and Draco chuckles and nods. “Yes, I like them. Scorpius told me about them. It’s relaxing.”

“He found out about them from Albus.”

Draco raises a curious eyebrow. “Oh?”

Harry nods. “When we were at Astoria’s…” He trails off for a moment, waving a hand in front of him. 

“Right,” Draco says, focusing on the countertop, a fingertip running over the edge, his lips turned down into a small frown. 

“Also yes,” Harry says, deciding to shift gears. “I feel better,” he amends at Draco’s puzzled expression. His finger traces over the plastic lid of his coffee. “Did you leave the hangover potion?”

Draco nods. “You didn’t have any so I Flooed back to my house to grab some.”

“You mean you didn’t— I mean, did you—” 

Draco stares in silence, an expectant look on his face. 

Harry tries to quell the memory of Draco’s hand in his when he woke up for a brief moment in the middle of the night, Draco’s hair wild in sleep, his breathing even. “When I woke up, you weren’t there. So I wondered if you went back last night or—”

“Oh,” Draco says in realisation, a self-conscious smile forming on his lips. “No...I stayed. I just woke up before you and had a shower.” He pauses, eyes squinting. “You snore, you know.”

“I do not!” Harry objects, affronted. 

“Yes, you do,” Draco replies in an even tone. “Believe me, I was there. You definitely do. Lucky for you I was so tired I didn’t take any video. I’m certain it would go viral. ‘The Saviour Snores’—has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Harry laughs with a shake of his head. “Lucky for me you value my privacy.”

Draco tsks. “More like I value my beauty sleep.” He pushes his hip off the kitchen island and walks closer to Harry, his eyes searching over his face. “I’m glad you’re better.” 

“What are you doing today?” Harry asks. 

Draco lifts his shoulder with an insouciant shrug. “My continuing panic attacks tend to take up a lot of my schedule. The options are virtually endless for when one will spring up.”

Harry reaches up and brushes back the stubborn fringe falling over Draco’s forehead. “Want to go on a road trip?”

Draco’s breath catches at Harry’s touch, his eyelids lowering before he blinks and shifts back. He occupies himself by tracing a fingertip on the countertop. “Where do you want to go?”

“That’s a surprise,” Harry replies with a mischievous grin. 

Draco studies Harry’s face before tilting his chin up. “Fine. I’ll bite.” His eyes rove over Harry before flicking back up. “But you have to shower first. You reek.”

“Wow. Please never give up on your crusade for honesty,” Harry responds as he turns towards his bedroom, tugging at his t-shirt and pulling it over his head. 

“It’s for your own good!” Draco calls after him, and Harry laughs.

**\--**

  
The car ride falls into a soothing atmosphere of alternating music from their personal playlists, with Draco behind the wheel. They’re accompanied by the winding expanse of roads ahead of them, and a destination set in the car’s GPS. In the distance, the landscape shifts and morphs, miles of terrain stretched against open blue skies and thick white fluffy clouds. Bright golden warmth heats Harry's skin, and between the calming lyrics and the smooth hum of tyres on the road, the gentle pull of sleep tugs him to dream.

He awakens to the jolt of the car parking, the engine idling, and the windows hissing as they roll down halfway. Harry’s eyes catch sight of jagged cliffs towering over bright aquamarine sea, the harmonious sound of waves crashing onto smooth glittering sand. Cool air blows inside, filtering in the tangy funk of seaweed, and the nerves Harry has been feeling for the last three days have transformed from a cacophonous unorganised orchestra to a wonderful calming symphony. 

“So what is this place?” Draco asks, studying the endless ocean in front of them. If Harry stares hard enough, he can spot when the colours morph from swirling blue green into crisp bright cerulean. 

“Kynance Cove,” Harry answers. 

Draco turns and levels him a look, eyes shielded by the dark tint of the Wayfarers resting on the bridge of his pointed nose. His hair is near translucent in the fierce brightness of the radiating sun, a soft wave settled at the root now that it has dried. 

“I came here once,” Harry murmurs, the words spilling from his lips before he considers what he is saying. “When I was a kid. With my aunt and uncle. And my cousin.”

“Was it fun?” 

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t tell Draco how he was forbidden to leave the hotel the whole trip while they explored the town during the day. That they him confined to the small space all by himself with hardly any food. That he would open the windows, listen to the melodic sounds of the waves crashing against the surf and think about being one with the sea, take deep breaths of salted air dreaming of a family that loved him. 

Instead he continues.

“After the war, everything was so depressing. So fucking sad and lonely. All the funerals, and tears—I was sick of seeing death. I’d had my fair share of that.”

Harry doesn’t tell Draco about how he came back. He doesn’t talk about the blinding glow of the afterlife, and he doesn’t want to describe the cries of a baby soul sheltered underneath a fucking train station bench. His soul. His mark. His loneliness. Harry doesn’t explain that at first life seemed important and wonderful and worth something, but the more death he became surrounded with, the more Harry wanted to run, run, run. 

Draco hums, adjusting in his seat. Their arms touch, a firm pressure that keeps Harry present. 

“So I came here,” Harry finishes. 

“It’s nice,” Draco says, removing his sunglasses and placing them in the glove compartment. “Tranquil.”

“Muggle schools are still in session so there’s not as many people,” Harry explains. “Its peak season is the summer. I’ve always wanted to bring the kids here.”

Draco’s forehead wrinkles. “You never came here with them?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. I’ve never—” He stops, swallows around the lump in his throat. “I’ve taken no one here before.” The admission hangs heavy between them. “Not even Ginny.”

Draco doesn’t move or shift. He remains eerily still, his breathing measured. 

Harry locks onto Draco’s unwavering gaze, the music a mere echo in the background, sweet and soft, and as Harry leans closer, he finds Draco meeting him halfway.

The kiss is short and sloppy, Harry’s mouth a little off the mark, coming into contact with the corner of Draco’s mouth and his cheek than his actual lips. Draco chuckles, low and relaxed, unbuckling his safety belt, the whirring noise of the belt retracting back into place. Harry does the same and as soon as his seatbelt clicks, Draco’s hand is on his neck pulling him close.

When their lips meet, it's nothing like Harry’s dreams. It’s more, so much more, heated and languid, and soft. Draco is tentative at first, but when Harry slips an involuntary moan, the pressure turns more consistent, more intense, and there’s the shift of bodies, a movement of hands, and Harry’s fingers are everywhere he can manage them, in Draco’s hair, gripping his arm. He moans at the brush of Draco’s tongue against the seam of his mouth and he opens for it with ease, the warmth filling every bit of his senses, and Harry’s faint at the reality of this, that all those dreamscapes didn’t prepare him for anything.

Draco tastes like of lingering hints of coffee, and salt of the sea, making Harry want to chase it until he cannot breathe anymore. He pushes forward, the car’s centre console aching as it jabs into his ribs, forcing Draco to bump his head into the window behind him. Draco’s moans hum against Harry’s lips, and all it does is make Harry want to dive deeper, drown in the sounds Draco makes. 

“Wait,” Draco gasps. A whine escapes from Harry’s mouth at the loss of connection. “My shoulder—”

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” Harry whispers, voice hoarse and slurred. Draco’s hair is wild and dishevelled, eyes lidded, his mouth parted. Harry is floating above the entire world, everything brighter and more colourful, more alive. He pulls back, resting a hand on Draco’s thigh, the skin of his palm scratchy against the fabric of his jeans. Draco’s mouth opens more with a hitched breath, his eyes fluttering shut. Harry squeezes. 

“Okay?” Harry asks in a hushed tone, the beating of his heart shifting into a drumming roar in his ears, so loud he’s sure that Draco can hear it over the sloshing ocean in the background, over the calming rhythm of music. 

Draco nods, gliding Harry’s hand up farther until it covers the bulge of his jeans. Harry gasps at the sudden heat against his palm, at the flush sitting high on Draco’s cheekbones. His head spins at the sight in front of him, at the reality that for all those bloody dreams of touching Draco like this are finally coming true. It’s breathtaking. 

Draco shudders a sigh, sucking in his lower lip between teeth. Despite the spring wind from outside, despite the blowing of the aircon in the car, Harry turns hot all over, sweat dampening his shirt, loose hairs sticking to the side of his face and forehead. He wants to touch Draco everywhere, explore every expanse of his body like a map and memorise it all. Harry hasn’t had an urge this intense since he first started dating Ginny, and the sensation is heady and overwhelming, spinning him in a circle of unbridled euphoria. 

“Oh god,” Draco whispers, hips canting into Harry’s palm, covering it with his own to apply more pressure. 

Harry leans closer, brushing his lips against Draco’s cheek, over the shell of his ear and whispers, “I want to touch you. Will you let me?”

“Oh,” Draco breathes. “Fuck, yes.”

Then it’s a flowing blur of awkward motions, of hands pulling at clothes, and before Harry can register everything, he’s touching Draco, and Draco’s mouth’s opening with a sharp gasp accompanied by a loud groan, head flinging back into the car seat. Harry’s arm cramps from the odd angle, the plastic digging into his rib and a gearshift jammed in his knee, but none of that matters if he can continue to elicit the noises and shuddering sighs escaping from between Draco’s lips. 

Draco’s ragged breath covers Harry’s mouth, the cool sensation of his fingertips curling around Harry’s neck pulling him closer and their lips crash again, messy and wet and wonderful. Their moans increase as tongues collide once more, and it makes Harry want to chase that noise, swallow every broken syllable.

It’s over fast, Draco arching his back and breaking the kiss, a balled fist slamming into the side of the door as wet warmth pools in Harry’s hand. His movements slow, unhurried but insistent, allowing Draco to ease down from the peak of his climax. Harry places soft kisses everywhere he can reach—on the shell of Draco’s ear, the side of his neck, his jaw, his cheek. He’s dazed and overwhelmed, like someone has flipped a live wire inside of him, and when Draco looks at Harry again, a lazy smile spreads across his lips. 

“Hi,” Harry says, leaning in to give a small kiss. 

Draco huffs a laugh. “Hi.” He looks down in front of him and rolls his eyes, cocking his head to the ceiling. “Do you mind...helping me out here?” he asks, waving at the mess in front of him. “It gets gross exceedingly quick.” 

Harry snorts a laugh with a shake of his head. “Too tired to show off that wandless magic of yours?”

Draco adjusts a bit, a casual arm flinging on top of his seat. He closes his eyes. “Are you serious? And ruin my afterglow? I think not.”

Harry’s chuckle is soft, and he brushes his nose against Draco’s cheek as he wandlessly cleans them both up. “Satisfied?” he whispers into his ear.

Draco hums in approval, the leisure-soaked smile ever present on his lips, his eyes remaining closed. “Very much so, thank you.” Harry brushes his knuckles over the exposed expanse of pale stomach, up the bunched area of jumper. Draco takes a deep inhale of breath, a slow exhale falling through parted lips.

Draco makes a frantic grab for his clothes, pulls his pants and jeans up, pawing for the door handle. It takes a few attempts to open, Harry asking, “Are you okay, what’s going on? Draco, what’s going on?” His words are ignored as Draco scrambles out of the car, leaving the driver’s door hanging open when he exits. 

Harry shifts in his seat as he watches the frenzied blur of Draco running around the back of the car. He yanks open the passenger door, grabbing for Harry’s hand, murmuring, “Come on, it’s okay, come on,” and Harry complies, his limbs stumbling right into Draco’s arms. 

Then Draco shoves Harry back against the car as the door slams shut, melting their bodies together. Harry can’t help the moan that falls from his lips, a strange variety of smells assaulting him—the salt of the ocean, the chip van up the road, the citrus-spice of Draco’s cologne. He attempts to catalogue these sensations one by one, but then Draco slides his thigh between Harry’s legs.

“Oh god,” Harry whispers, closing his eyes tight, the warmth of the afternoon sun bathing his face. Draco chuckles against his neck, the grip of his other hand tightening around Harry’s hip.

“It’s your turn now,” Draco murmurs with a gentle nip to the sensitive part of Harry’s collarbone, and Harry sighs at the touch.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
A brush of fingertips trails over Draco’s arm, across his collarbone and he gives a lazy smile, closes his eyes. When the rough pads brush onto his lips, he leaves a gentle kiss, flicks his tongue out to taste. There’s a sharp inhale of breath, and Draco emits a smug chuckle.

“Such a tease,” Harry admonishes softly.

Draco turns on his back to give a luxurious stretch and a soft groan. “You weren’t complaining about that last night.”

“Not complaining about it now,” Harry mutters, drawing closer and placing chaste kisses over Draco’s shoulder, his neck, and that secret soft spot behind his ear that makes him shiver, which Harry discovered with impressive proficiency. 

Draco bites his lip, attempting to suppress the whine ebbing in the back of his throat. It doesn’t work, and Harry’s breath tickles over his neck when he laughs. They shift a bit until they’re lying on their sides, Draco catching a glimpse of Harry’s sleep-mussed hair, wild without it being tied up, and a beautiful mess over his head. His stomach does an excited swan dive at Harry lying in his bed in front of him, topless and wrapped up in sheets, an ankle resting on Draco’s calf. 

They didn’t stay at Kynance Cove for long. Draco shook with adrenaline after watching Harry come undone in front of him, his hands gripping onto Draco’s shoulders bruising-tight when he spilled in Draco’s hand, wrapping his arms around Draco’s shoulder and pulling him close to bury his face into Draco’s neck until the aftershocks eased. They stood still like that, against the jagged edge of the cliff, the noise of the ocean beneath them, warm afternoon sun feverish on their backs. 

Harry leaned against the car, tilted his head up and whispered, “Bloody hell,” as if he was having a direct conversation with the sky. 

Draco, ever the gentlemen, did a wandless clean up.

They headed to Draco’s by unspoken agreement. They didn’t talk much during the drive, only stopping at the fish and chips van up the road for a quick bite, Harry pulling a self-satisfied smile as he licked salt off of his fingers in an obscene gesture that made Draco almost toss his chips over his shoulder and get down on his knees right there. The trip back was a fast-paced blur, and the pulsing anticipatory excitement in Draco’s veins as they approached the village left him dizzy with desire. When he parked the car in the gravel driveway, Draco sat for a long moment before turning the key in the ignition and asking Harry if he’d like to come inside for a cup of tea. 

They never made the tea.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry whispers, his fingertips tracing over Draco’s arm. He doesn’t know how to answer the question. His mind travels to the memory of Harry’s body pressed against his as they fell on the bed, the weight of Harry’s chest and hips heavy alongside the frustrating need for friction building over too many layers of clothes, the warmth of Harry’s mouth addictive and heady. 

“I’m thinking about how good more sleep sounds,” Draco says instead.

Harry grins and replies, “Then let’s do that.”

**\--**

  
Draco is making tea in the kitchen when the fireplace roars dramatically in the living room. He wasn’t expecting anyone, at least he doesn’t think he was.

“Draco?” Pansy calls, the click of her stilettos resonating on the wooden floors. “You better be here because I have been calling you all morning and you have rudely ignored me.”

With a deep sigh, Draco grips the side of the counter and hangs his head. His mobile died by the time they arrived at the house, but Draco had been too preoccupied to care. His mind was reeling at the thought that Harry could end up staying the night. 

“In here,” he responds, the sharp tap of Pansy’s heels clicking louder as she enters the kitchen. 

“Well,” Pansy drawls, leaning a shoulder against the entryway, one stocking-clad leg crossing over another, arms in tow. Her pencil skirt gives a feeble attempt to stretch, losing the battle from the incomprehensible tightness it grips around her thighs. She gives Draco a once over before saying, “I’ll let your sister-in-law know that you’re not in a ditch somewhere.”

“Pansy,” Draco starts, but doesn’t have the heart to even get irritated with her. His head is distracted with the memory of Harry’s face last night as he tilted his neck up to the bedroom ceiling with a ragged gasp when Draco’s hand slipped between his legs for the second time that day.

“Why aren’t you answering your mobile? The whole point of having one is to answer when someone calls you.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of the entire function of a mobile, thank you for the lecture,” Draco responds archly. He turns to occupy himself again with the kettle. 

“Oh yes I would love a cup, thank you,” Pansy responds, sliding into the chair at the kitchen table with remarkable elegance. She adjusts her red dress shirt and crosses her legs. “Two sugars.”

“I know how you take your tea,” Draco grouses with a roll of his eyes. “It’s been the same since you were 15.”

Pansy shrugs. “Thought maybe you forgot since you couldn’t remember that you had plans to meet me today for lunch.”

Shit. They were to be discussing plans about the wedding details as Pansy’s stress levels have increased at an alarming rate. Despite Draco’s continued insistence that she hire a coordinator, Pansy protests that being an event coordinator is what she does for employment so why would she want to put the responsibility into the hands of someone else if the best can handle it?

Sometimes Draco wishes his best friend wasn’t such a control freak. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco mumbles, grabbing the whistling kettle to make their tea. “I...I forgot.”

“Clearly,” Pansy says with a snort. There’s a long pause before she speaks again. “So what happened?”

Draco walks over and sits in the opposite chair, placing a mug in front of Pansy. With delicate ease she lifts the cup to her red lips and blows over the steaming liquid, eyes in sharp focus. She’s waiting for him to give a better explanation and Pansy, ever patient, is a snake in the grass waiting to strike when she’s ready. Draco hopes that maybe today she will be merciful. 

“Nothing,” Draco tries, and does an internal wince at the way his voice fails at nonchalance. Pansy narrows her eyes, tilting her head to the side, bobbed hair brushing over her cheek. 

“Hm,” she says. “If you won’t tell me, I’m just going to have to guess. Which is fine by me. We both know how much I love guessing and how much you hate it.”

Draco scrubs his face, and with a weak plea says, “Pans, please don’t.”

“Oh, this is something serious, isn’t it?” Pansy responds with a much-too-gleeful tone. She rests her chin in her hand, fingernails lacquered in a blood red so dark they appear black. 

Draco inhales a deep calming breath, a feeble attempt to ease his racing heart. His mind, the betraying bitch that it is, wanders back to that morning when he woke up to Harry’s mouth trailing down his body, examining every scar formed from the sectumsempra curse. They had faded over the years, nothing but small pale reminders of another time in Draco’s life. Most days he forgets they even exist, but then Harry’s tongue flicked over them, as he began lavishing a sensitive spot on Draco's hip bone, leaving him awakened and brought back to life. 

“I didn’t know you had a thing for scars,” Draco whispered, breathless. 

“I don’t,” Harry replied, voice ragged with sleep. “This is just an apology.” And before Draco could think of a quip back, Harry slipped off his boxers and his mouth wrapped around Draco’s weak morning erection. Then everything around Draco intensified—the sheets were softer under his skin, the room less chilly—and Harry was right there, careful and present. 

“You’re blushing,” Pansy observes, reeling Draco back into the present. 

“I am not,” Draco argues, staring into his mug. If he looks at Pansy, he knows that it’ll be all over.

“Your denial only makes you blush harder.” There’s a pause that stretches far too long, and it’s uncomfortably tangible, like a siren’s song. “So what happened?” Pansy prods, her voice affecting a bored tone. “You get your leg over or something?"

Draco grips the mug harder.

“Fuck all, you did.” Draco shifts his eyes, getting a full view of the wicked grin sliding onto Pansy’s lips. “You absolute tart. Now I need details.”

“Oh my god,” Draco groans, burying his face in his arms on the table. “I’m begging you. Please don’t do this.”

“No, no, this is happening,” Pansy insists, the rapping of her fingernail on the table a boisterous echo in Draco’s ears. “Merlin, please don’t tell me you did it through one of those hookup apps? I thought you worked through your fucking-strangers-like-a-wanton-whore days.”

“Pansy,” Draco says in a sharp voice. “I will hex you. I don’t care what the respectful or polite etiquette is.”

Pansy whistles. “I was just trying to get you to admit what is already obvious,” she says, the sounds of the chair scratching over the tiled floor ricocheting in the air. 

“And what’s that?” Draco mutters into the table top. The silence stretches for a long time, and when he lifts his head, he sees Pansy’s eyes softened and meaningful. She turns around to set their mugs into the sink. 

“That for the first time since Astoria passed away, you’re actually happy.”

**  
**-February 2019-**  
**

“You’re nervous,” Astoria muses when she enters the house, her arms brimming with new blooms from her everlasting flower garden, a wonderful spectrum of colour ranging from bold blues to muted pinks.

“I am not,” Draco grouses, bending over to rearrange the cushions on the sofa for the eleventh time. 

“Yes you are,” Astoria sings, disappearing into the kitchen. “They’re our friends Draco, not strangers!”

The celebration was Astoria’s idea, sprung up when Hermione had happily announced at the last appointment that Astoria’s immunity was stable and she’d been given clearance to add to her daily activities, albeit with restrictions. 

“You won’t be able to do anything too strenuous,” Hermione advised in a tone that reminded Draco of their youth. Her expression was stern and serious. “This is merely a trial, just to see if this treatment plan is stabilising the condition enough for you to do light duties at most.”

“So I can’t participate in that broom marathon coming up?” Astoria asked, her eyes wide with faux innocence. Draco covered his smile behind his hand, but couldn’t contain the snort. 

Hermione smirked. “So what are you going to do?”

Astoria shrugged, opting for succinct. “Celebrate.” 

And celebrate they will. Astoria invited their closest friends and family over to the house for a small gathering, a simple casual affair with friends. “Just our favourite people,” she whispered, the shimmering glee clear in her green eyes. 

She looked so happy, so wondrously youthful, and Draco ached to bottle that delight, keep it locked safe somewhere in his heart just for himself. He missed seeing her exuberance, missed the shine in her hair, and the brightness of her laugh. He wondered if he would ever see it again. 

“Darling?” Astoria calls, poking her head out from the kitchen. “Did you hear me?” 

Draco blinks, realising that he’s still holding onto one of the scatter cushions. “No,” he admits, setting it down on the sofa. “I didn’t, I’m sorry.”

“I asked if you think Hermione would appreciate lily of the valley or daffodils?”

“I don’t think she has a preference, love,” Draco says, walking into the kitchen and finding Astoria arranging the flowers into a variety of vases. She had made a special trip to Diagon Alley to her favourite florist for the decorative jars, specially blown and magicked to keep the blooms watered and fertilised at all times. 

Astoria places a bundle of wisteria into a cornflower blue vase, leaning back to observe the arrangement. “What do you think?” she asks, tilting her head to the side as she studies the flowers with a careful eye. 

Draco wraps his arms around her waist, observing the blooms. “I think it’s perfect,” he whispers, reaching for her hand and spinning her to face him. Astoria lets out a surprised laugh, her arm slinging around Draco’s neck as he clasps her other hand with his. They begin to sway in the kitchen, and Astoria’s smile is so hypnotising and gorgeous; Draco is certain he could fly. 

“I love you,” Astoria whispers, her eyes searching over his face, fingertips brushing against his cheek. “Thank you.”

“Whatever for?”

“For always being there,” she says, voice catching at the end as she swallows. “For never giving up.”

Draco pauses their dance and cups her face. “I will never give up on you,” he promises, and then Astoria pushes him back into the wall, kisses him fierce and hot, leaving Draco so speechless his only response is a low groan, hands trembling in her hair, and he knows that if he had the choice, he’d choose this over and over again.

**\--**

  
The gathering, as Draco expected, is a hit. Astoria, with her uncanny talent to mesh all of their friends together in a seamless motion, remembers small details to strike up conversation, joining the group to interact as though they have been doing this for years.

As everyone sits in the living room, surrounded by cheese boards and a new batch of wine from the vineyard—“Especially for the occasion,” Pansy says with a wink to Astoria—the tight wire that has been curling inside of Draco releases a little. 

It’s been a stressful few months, with appointments, and diagnostics, and finding a proper potion regimen that balances well with Astoria’s condition. Draco was fearful that they wouldn’t be able to find anything, that she would just vanish from him, the nightmares he’s been enduring coming to life, the crumbling of her body into ash and drifting away with the wind a reality. 

He wraps an arm around Astoria’s shoulder, pulling her closer, and the warmth of her body settles the growing anxiety pumping in Draco’s veins. Finally, the fight that Astoria has been battling has resulted in a stalemate, and Draco cannot be more overjoyed. Maybe they can take Scorpius to New York this summer, just as she’s always wanted, spend a few weeks enjoying a proper American holiday. 

Draco thinks about busy streets, greasy food, and museums. He thinks about Scorpius and Astoria’s smiling faces, shining and gleeful, their excitement contagious and intoxicating. They’d be a part of the vibrations of the city, adapting to the persistent movement, the heartbeat a consistent pulse birthed through the pavement. 

Astoria reaches for Draco’s free hand, lacing their fingers together. She turns up at him, green eyes blazing with devotion, happiness, and hope. Draco’s chest is so overwhelmed with love, so full of it, he could drown in that well of emotion. No one has ever made him this happy, this beloved, except Astoria. It’s always been Astoria. 

“Hi,” Astoria whispers, a soft smile spreading onto her lips. 

Draco brushes his thumb against her chin, tilts it up and kisses her softly. Astoria’s hand rests on his hip, giving it a gentle squeeze, and a rush of heat flares through him, sending an electric tingle to his toes. 

“Oi!” Ron calls, earning laughs from the rest of the crowd. “If you’re putting on a show, at least ask if we can take part!” 

Astoria chuckles against Draco’s lips, tilting her head towards Ron. “If that’s what you’re into, all you gotta do is ask.” 

The cackle of laughter rings inside the living room. When Astoria turns back to Draco and whispers, “I’m so glad I have you,” Draco hears nothing else.


	13. Chapter 13

**  
**-May 2020-**  
**

  
The call comes when Draco is running around frantically before heading to Hermione and Ron’s cottage. Harry asked him to join one of their monthly dinner meet-ups, an activity that Hermione instituted when Harry and Ginny divorced.

“She always worries,” Harry said when he called to extend the invite. Draco knew he was lifting his shoulder in one of his casual shrugs, “and fighting with her is an exercise in futility.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Draco laughed. 

“But it would be nice, you know,” Harry said, his voice growing quiet, “if you were there.”

They haven’t seen each other since the afternoon at the cove, time an ever revolving turntable of morning, noon, and night. Draco finds comfort in routine, planning out social engagements (weekly lunch meet-ups with Daphne or Pansy; supper with Elizabeth; an occasional coffee with Hermione; and most importantly, his biweekly sessions with Imogen) or trying to immerse himself back into his abandoned responsibilities with the Greengrass Vineyard. 

But it’s the evenings he looks forward to the most, when Harry calls as he fumbles into his flat from a long day of work, rambling about the bureaucratic injustices that come with being Head of the DMLE. His voice always sounds dissatisfied, and Draco knows deep down that the disillusionment of evolving from the Boy who Lived into the Man who Leads hangs heavy for him. 

Those moments are when Draco thinks he knows Harry, a glimpse of the man himself reserved for a special few. It’s overwhelming to be so privileged, and every time they end their talks, Draco feels a mixture of buzzing elation and unwelcomed worry that this will end as fast as it’s begun.

Draco’s ripping apart his wardrobe in search of something that will be suitable with his dark-wash jeans when his mobile rings with the ever-familiar tinny trill. Draco absently reaches for the phone and swipes the screen with his thumb to answer. “Sorry I’m running late. Had a wardrobe malfunction, which is just as ridiculous and embarrassing as it sounds.”

“Dad?” Scorpius answers, bewildered. His voice sounds exhausted and frayed, and Draco’s stomach does an uncomfortable dip.

“Scorp?” Draco replies, brow wrinkling in concern. “What’s going on?”

“Uh, well, not much,” Scorpius begins. He sounds lost, as though his thoughts are so heavy that the words he’s searching for evade him. Draco can hear him fidgeting. “I’m...I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“It’s alright, son,” Draco assures. “Is everything okay with your coursework? You know McGonagall said that if the workload was too stressful, they would make accommodations for—”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Scorpius says in a rush. “I just...I meant to call last month, and I didn’t and I’m sorry.”

“Okay…” Draco says, somewhat confused. “You don’t have to apologise, though. You know that, right?” 

“It’s just...I know it’s a hard time for you,” Scorpius explains, heavy with insistence, “because April’s when we found out about Mum’s prognosis going terminal and—” There’s a sharp inhale of breath. 

Fuck. Draco cannot believe he forgot. April had come and gone in a blur of _Harry, Harry, Harry_, and the internal countdown that Draco was living washed away like a wayward ship at sea. Guilt flows over him, Draco’s legs turn weak, and he sits down on the edge of his bed. He closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath. 

“It’s okay,” Draco says, in a calm, reassuring tone. “But you shouldn’t apologise to me. I should apologise to you.”

“No, Dad, we’re in this together,” Scorpius states, the wary inflection evaporated and replaced with an insistent firmness. “Margot says that neither one of us should carry the responsibility alone, and that we are better at this as a team.” 

Draco smiles at his son’s passionate persistence. Scorpius is so full of love, so full of dedication, so full of faith. He misses him like mad, wishing for more of that ephemeral thing called time, but time continues moving forward and all the while Draco is here, forgetting about the month of his wife’s terminal prognosis. 

“So you’re still attending your mind Healer appointments?” Draco asks.

There’s a pause and a sigh, followed by a scratching shuffle on the other end. “Yes,” Scorpius replies, and he sounds achy and bone-weary, and Draco’s chest clenches in a tight twine around his heart. 

“Are they going well?” Draco prods with delicacy.

“Yeah. It’s just...hard sometimes,” Scorpius confesses. “Is it hard for you?”

Draco closes his eyes, bites his lower lip and musters everything he can to keep his resolve. He doesn’t know how to tell Scorpius about the pain that exists deep inside of his muscles, the guilt that betrays him when he’s having a good day. How when he closes his eyes, he sometimes sees Harry’s smile instead of Astoria’s. 

“Yes,” he says on an exhale. “Yes, it’s hard. You’re not alone in that.”

“That’s good,” Scorpius responds, the timbre of his voice soft with sleepiness. “I should go,” he continues with an exhausted sigh. “I have to write a Potions essay. Albus said he would help me.”

“Right,” Draco replies with a nod. They sit in silence for a beat, Draco plucking at the duvet on the bed. “Hey Scorp?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” Draco whispers. “You know that, right?” 

A soft chuckle rumbles on the other end. “Of course I do, Dad.” Another pause. “And I love you too.”

**\--**

  
Harry is leaning against the door jamb of Ron and Hermione's box cottage, staring at his mobile when Draco ambles towards their tiny front garden. A small unfinished decorative wooden picket fence standing no higher than Draco’s knee circles around lush green grass, the cream-coloured stucco facade festooned in various arrays of wildflowers. Astoria had helped Hermione perfect the art of magical gardening, offering small tricks she’d learned over the years to protect the blooms from the unpredictable British weather.

A cobblestone walkway directs a path to the modest home, and when Harry finally looks up at Draco, his smile is so radiant Draco’s heart thuds with a rapid gallop, desire blooming throughout his body. He doesn’t even make it to the front door before Harry tugs Draco close, leaning in to kiss him so tenderly it leaves him spinning.

“Hi,” Harry murmurs, his mouth brushing against Draco’s as he speaks. “Been waiting for you.”

Draco chuckles, suppressing a shiver at the warmth of Harry’s breath against his lips. “I always knew you were a sap.”

Harry gives a playful shove, wrapping his fingers around Draco’s wrist. “I was being polite. I am the one who invited you, you know.”

“Ah, but it’s not my first time here. I have an open invitation.”

Harry tugs at Draco’s wrist, pulling their chests together. “Maybe I wanted you to come with me,” he murmurs, and before Draco can respond he releases their embrace and tilts his head to the house. “Let’s go inside before they send out a search party.”

**\--**

  
The search party, it appears, isn’t made up of just Ron and Hermione, but also a few friends who live in Ottery St Catchpole.

“More like family,” Hermione explains, while giving Draco a long hug. “That’s Marie and Dale,” she says, pointing to a couple conversing intently with another couple in quiet voices. She points to the other man and woman sitting on the couch adjacent. “And I believe you’ve met Marisa and Julien before.”

Draco peers over Hermione’s shoulder into the crowd. The couple looks familiar, but for the life of him he cannot remember anything about them. Astoria could always recall past interactions with ease, and if she were here she’d tease Draco for his forgetfulness and reintroduce him to the pair with grace and enthusiasm. 

A surge of sorrow swells inside of him, swift and bitter, leaving Draco shaken in its unwelcomed wake, fumbling in this unpredictable existence. Astoria belongs here with this crowd, mingling and social, the sound of her laugh as addictive as her favourite sweets. She’d enchant everyone with the humour and charisma that only she could possess. It’s something that Draco still admires about her, even though he will never see it again. 

“You alright?” Hermione asks, mouth curled in a concerned frown.

“Need a bit of air,” Draco says around a tight throat, hiking a thumb over his shoulder towards the back garden. Hermione’s hand reaches for Draco’s arm, tightens around it in a reassuring squeeze, and she nods gently. He weaves his way through the kitchen, raising his hand in a polite wave to Ron, who’s distributing wine in various glasses, before slipping out the door. 

The air outside is sharp and frosty, the chilled bite assuaging the uncomfortable twist in Draco’s chest. The strong scent of soil and flowers is rich in the air, and Draco drinks it in with a deep inhale. He glances around at the messy back garden. It’s overgrown from a decent amount of neglect, pots filled with wild blooms, and a neglected vegetable garden, now filled with weeds.

Maybe Draco should have cancelled. Maybe he should pay attention to time and his calendar so he doesn’t drift through an important date. Maybe he should call or write to Scorpius more. Astoria would know what to do, would know how to handle all of this with the deftness it requires. But here Draco is, stumbling around, a lost bird caught in a sudden windstorm. 

The air breathes of oncoming rain, a sky tinged dull grey, and the rustling of plants against the wind calms the erratic shift in Draco’s nerves. He closes his eyes to embrace the scenery all around him, allow it to blanket him in his own meditation. The creak of the back door is a far away cry, and when the crunch of shoes on the pebbled path grows closer, he opens his eyes. 

“Following me?” Draco says with a teasing lift of an eyebrow. “I thought we were long past that.”

Harry reaches into his pocket, retrieving a hair tie and pulls his hair up, but only halfway. It results in a messy bun, with shorter clumps falling over his face, that makes Draco’s fingers twitch to touch. 

“I only follow you when it’s necessary.” 

“An arguable statement, I should say.” 

Harry grins. “Ron and Hermione without a doubt have had a lot of opinions about it.” 

This piques Draco’s interest. “Oh?”

Harry wipes his hand over his mouth, a sly grin slipping onto his face. His eyes roll up to the dull-coloured sky as two lonely birds make their way through the sharp winds. “Long story. In the past.”

“Well now you’ve fed into my curiosity,” Draco says with a pressing tease. “You can’t just dangle a carrot in a man’s face like that and not expect questions.”

Harry’s smirk spreads into a full-blown smile. Draco notices the small dimple on the right side of his cheek that only comes to life when Harry’s expression is genuine. It makes Draco want to kiss it, and he forces himself to turn away before making a fool of himself in his friend’s garden.

“Why are you out here?” Harry asks. He turns back to observing the sky. 

Draco chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, trying to gather the proper words to formulate an answer. He closes his eyes again, thinking of the lost sound of Scorpius’s voice, the weathered emotions that he must be having and how Scotland is too fucking far away for a child to be when they’re mourning the loss of their mother. 

“Last month was the anniversary of Astoria’s four-month prognosis,” Draco explains. 

This grabs Harry’s attention. His eyes widen a little and in the overcast light of the afternoon, his eyes are so, so green. “Oh?”

Draco nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Scorpius called to apologise for not having enough time to find out how I was doing. What he doesn’t know is I forgot. I’m doing a brilliant job at parenting, it seems.”

Harry huffs, stretching his back in a languid lean against the stucco wall. Draco smells the spiciness of aftershave, feels the heat radiating from Harry’s arm. He continues to stare out into the garden, eyes squinting a little in concentration. 

“You actually get a pass on that,” Harry says, “considering the circumstances.”

“Lovely,” Draco replies, tone dry. “So being a shit father who can’t keep his wits about him is acceptable. Even when you’re parenting a teenager who lost their mother. Cheers.” 

“You’re doing a better job than you’re giving yourself credit for,” Harry reasons. 

Draco huffs out a sardonic laugh. “Get back to me in about five years when Scorpius finishes his NEWTs and then we’ll talk.” 

“God, have you always been this terrible at taking a compliment?” Harry chuckles, the unamused clip of the laugh making Draco wince. Then there’s a brush of fingertips on top of his hand, messy fingers slipping around onto Draco’s palm. “There’s no guidebook on mourning, you know. You’ve just got to do the best you can.”

“So me running away from a friend’s little dinner party to avoid having a public panic attack is perfectly acceptable? It won’t send me to the Janis Thickey Ward?”

Harry laughs, sincerity dripping all over it. Draco relaxes in relief. “Probably wouldn’t want to test it. Gotta keep people guessing,” he whispers with a conspiratorial timbre. 

Draco chuckles. “You’re fucking crazy, Potter.”

Harry leans over, brushing his lips against Draco’s ear and whispers, “It’s what you like most about me.”

Draco shudders, grabbing for Harry’s wrist, and pulls him until their bodies are flush. “Be quiet and put that mouth to better use,” he murmurs, and Harry doesn’t waste a moment before he’s pushing Draco against the hard wall and kissing him.

**\--**

  
Draco pointedly ignores Ron’s knowing grin when he returns with Harry in tow. He also ignores the fact that Harry has made no effort to fix his lopsided mess of hair, or conceal the small mark on his collarbone that peeks out of his tight maroon henley.

Hermione snorts into her wine glass, and Draco slants her a withering stare as he settles into one of their overabundance of transfigured loveseats. It’s soft and just on this side of too squishy, and when Harry curls right next to Draco, stretching an arm behind his shoulders, a thigh pressed warm against his, Draco aches to put his hands all over him again. Draco focuses on drinking his glass of wine, hoping to stave off the growing erection in his jeans. 

The other couples have children of similar age to Scorpius, and after a few glasses of wine, it seems the best topic of conversation is, in fact, the difficulty of raising teenagers. 

“I want to understand!” Marisa, the woman Draco couldn’t place when he first arrived, declares. “How do boys smell so _ghastly_. What is it?? I _need_ to understand!” 

“It’s an enigma,” Harry agrees with a knowing nod. “Just invest in a lot of scented Muggle candles. I promise it helps. Especially with the bedrooms.”

Draco looks between the parents with a keen sense of disgruntled horror, and shakes his head. “I am so glad I only had one,” he mutters. 

Harry gives a gentle shove and leans in close to speak. “Trust me,” he says in a low murmur, “your son is just as gross as the rest of them.”

Draco shudders. “Don’t tell me details. I really do not want to know.” Draco peers down into his near-empty glass and frowns. “If we continue further on this topic, I will need more alcohol. Preferably now.”

“The kitchen is right there,” Ron drawls, leaning back in his chair. He laughs at Draco’s cocked eyebrow. “Draco, you’ve been here many times. You know where we keep the wine. Don’t make me be a host, mate.”

“I’ll get it,” Harry volunteers, giving Draco’s knee a gentle squeeze. Ron’s eyes track Harry’s exit to the kitchen and he turns to Draco with a curious cant of his head, a crooked smile tugging on his lips. Hermione glances between the two of them and chuckles, shoving an elbow into Ron’s ribs.

“Pay attention,” she admonishes, eyes focused on the other couples as they continue to engage in lengthy discourse about the newest Muggle Tech program Hogwarts has been instituting over the last several years. Harry returns to the living room, holding the stems of their wine glasses with surprising deftness in one hand as he bends down to grab a canapé, popping it into his mouth. 

He slants a sly smile to Draco, naked heat burning in his eyes, taking his time chewing his food. Draco’s watches the tip of Harry’s tongue grace his bottom lip before sucking it between teeth, releasing it with practiced ease. Draco, distracted by the red wetness of Harry’s mouth, takes the proffered wine glass in a lust-filled haze, and has to bite the inside of his cheek to resist grabbing Harry’s hips and kissing him on the spot. 

It’s going to be a long night.

**\--**

  
The evening rolls at a lethargic pace, and after several shared bottles of wine, Draco is warm and relaxed in the tranquil silence of the living room. Hermione has opted to play something instrumental on the house’s Google Home system, leaving everyone sitting comfortably for a bit to enjoy the crackling fire, the beautiful music, and companionship.

Harry’s hand remains on Draco’s knee for the entire evening, his fingertips moving in slow unhurried circles. It’s distracting and soothing, with the rest of the ambiance, and Draco shifts to rest his head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry adjusts so Draco can curl into him, Harry’s hand pushing up farther on his thigh. 

“Yeah, that’s nice,” Draco hums, eyes fluttering closed. He hears the rumble of Harry’s laugh, the squeeze of his palm on his arm, and the merest brush of a kiss on his temple before he drifts off, dreaming of cosy nights and Harry’s warm touch.

**\--**

  
Sometimes, when Draco’s missing Astoria with raging intensity that he can’t ignore—the anxious curl in his stomach, the tightness in his throat, the sting behind his eyes—he sits in the room she spent her last days in.

In that same room Scorpius would read stories to her, just as she did when he was younger, his finger gliding along the page. Draco was so moved with affection, unbridled fondness, that it was almost too painful to watch the two of them together. But Draco knew that time was borrowed for Astoria, especially her time with their only child, their son, and he didn’t want to miss a single second. 

Some days, Scorpius’s voice would echo through the house as he read. The soft, soothing tones would centre him as he stood at the bottom of the staircase, contemplating if he should interrupt the intimate moment that his son was sharing with his mother. After all, they were all on borrowed time, and Draco wanted to respect what few moments they had together. 

The room still looks the same as the day he cleaned it, everything folded perfectly, cleaned, and picture frames sitting in their proper places. When they purchased this house, they had hoped to fill it with another child, but after Astoria’s discovery of her condition, they knew it wasn’t possible. 

“Then let’s make it a spare room,” Astoria insisted, her eyes sparkling with infinite possibilities. “We can have people come and visit us, maybe even offer it up as a bed-and-breakfast room...who knows it’s potential?”

Draco didn’t have the heart to tell her that their small village was not much of a tourist trap for most of the year and that, when it was, guests settled in one of the larger locations. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, her hair smelling of sunflowers in the summer, and smiled until his face hurt. 

Settling into the wingback chair, Draco rests the scrapbook that Astoria gifted him and Scorpius for Christmas on his knees. He’s studied it several times before, most often during late nights when he cannot sleep or finds himself awakened from an intense nightmare. Now he craves to see her handwriting again, to see the memories that mattered most to her. Draco grips the edges like he always does before he opens it. It’s almost a ritual now, squeezing sides squished from overuse, inhaling a deep calming breath before opening the book. 

The first few pages contain a story mapping the genesis of their relationship, an extension of the photos around their house, with small candids of them at their first flat in Camden, nothing but a small studio with little space, which they’d loved. Draco loved waking in the mornings to the sunlight cutting through the windows their bed lined up against, watching the way light danced off of Astoria’s shoulders, her cheekbones. They would sleep in late those days, spending their evenings out on the town, going to gigs and slogging through local record stores to come back to their flat and listen to new records on the turntable that Astoria bought through an impulse purchase, stating that “music is only best when you can hear the scratch of a needle on vinyl”. 

Inspired by Astoria’s penchant for spontaneity, Draco’d bought an old Polaroid camera in a charity shop, the item abandoned by someone who didn’t understand or care about the importance of the present. The next few pages are filled with faded but beloved snapshots of Astoria and Draco, Daphne and Pansy, and other people who had once been a part of their lives who are now long gone, a distant memory of the past. Draco wonders occasionally whatever happened to their Camden friends, some Muggle, some not—where they are now, what they do in their free time, and if they think about Astoria on a random Saturday afternoon over tea with their current friends. If her laugh infiltrates their dreams like it does his, if her good humour resonates in their veins when they least expect it. He wonders if they talk about a time long ago, of the never-ending nights of record parties, everyone booze-soaked with cheap gin, of cramming bodies into their tiny flat, sleeping bags spread out without care, the lullaby of a current album lulling them to sleep. 

If they don’t, then it’s their loss. Draco knows this is what holds him together, the essence of Astoria, the knowledge that she existed, that it wasn’t just a mirage, or a daydream. When he continues to flip through the pages and sees the professional photos of their wedding, Draco’s hand shakes, the crisp air perfumed with the strong scent of magnolias coming back to his senses. 

Astoria chose them for their meaning of dignity and purity. 

“We all need a little of both sometimes,” Astoria said with a knowing nod, a mischievous glint in her eye before she turned back to the florist to discuss other arrangements.

After much contentious conversation, they agreed to their parents’ wishes, opting for a lavish, pureblood wedding. For Astoria, that meant she would have every wish she had ever dreamed granted. Her wedding dress was handmade with the finest magical Belgian lace, with special charms to make it shimmer. She had the brightest, most lavish floral arrangements, and when she demanded that the ceremony outside at her family’s vineyard, the one place that would soon become her own, her parents gave a terse nod and didn’t argue. 

Below a photo of Draco dancing with Astoria at their reception, smiles illuminated by an everlasting glow of floating candles, rests the caption _Amor Vincit Omnia_ in Astoria’s neat, loopy script. Draco blinks a few times to satiate the prickle in his eyes, and turns the pages. The events of that sacred night play out: Blaise sitting at a table, arm resting on the back of the chair, legs sprawled out before him, tilting a flirtatious smile to the camera before shifting his focus to the left; Pansy and Daphne engaged in a sombre conversation, until they both tilt their heads back and laugh, leaning in for a simple kiss; Draco standing off to the side holding a champagne flute, his eyes fixed on something in the distance, a tiny smirk on his face. 

He remembers staring at Astoria on the dancefloor, her long train magically shortened so she could move with ease. Draco was so euphoric in that moment; he believed nothing would ever make him as happy as he was then.

Draco shuffles through the photos of Scorpius—the day he was born, Astoria weak but enthralled with their tiny newborn, her eyes brimming with tears; a toddler version of Scorp tossed in the air before Draco catches him in his arms, nuzzling his nose inside the crook of his son’s neck, the giggles so obvious that Draco can almost hear them through the photo. Then he stares at his favourite one, Astoria standing on a cliff overlooking the ocean with Scorpius at her side, backs to the camera. Their hair ruffles in the harsh wind, and Draco holds his breath as he waits for Scorpius’s tiny hand to reach for Astoria’s. 

With blurry vision, Draco closes the scrapbook, unable to continue until the end. He sets it on the end of the bed, gasping out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, and closing his eyes to quell the sudden rise in his heartbeat, the fever of his skin. The shortness of breath overtakes him, an electrifying surge of panic, the unease in his stomach filling to the brim. 

This hasn’t happened in a bit, and Draco chokes out a distraught laugh that it’s occurring in the room where his wife died, as he tries to attempt to connect with her. Of course this happens now, robbing him of the ability to think back on the happiness they had as a family. Reality is such a double edged sword: if Draco forgets, he feels unbearable guilt, but every time he remembers—When he remembers—

Draco closes his eyes, grips the arms of the wingback chair, and sucks in a shallow breath through his mouth, counting slowly to himself for several seconds before exhaling slowly through his nose. 

Then his mind conjures up the image of the cove he visited with Harry, the way Harry’s fingertips brushed against his skin, the warmth of his breath on Draco’s mouth before his tongue slipped inside, wet and perfect against his own. How Harry’s arms always make Draco boneless and safe, and when he wakes up in the morning and reaches out, aching for a familiar face, it’s for a mess of black hair over a pillowcase, the barest of touches to his shoulder. 

“Draco? Are you home?” 

Draco’s eyes snap open at the sound of Harry’s voice in the living room. He looks around the room frantically, but the tight coil in his chest twists again, and Draco places a flat palm in the centre of his chest, presses it into his breastbone, a feeble attempt to ease the discomfort. Another long intake of breath through his nose, and out of his mouth, and Draco closes his eyes, focuses on the incoming footsteps, the creak of the bedroom door, the ocean outside. 

“Ah, there you are,” Harry says, and there’s a pause, the click of shoes deafening on the wooden floor. Draco’s hand falls to his knees, Harry’s palms covering them and giving a gentle squeeze. “Draco, look at me.”

Draco pries his eyes open, peers into concerned green ones. His hair is messily pulled back, loose bits flipped over to one side. It should look ridiculous, but on Harry it’s alluring and intoxicating, and Draco wants nothing more than to reach up and brush his fingers through it all, pull at the root to watch Harry’s eyes flutter shut as they always do when he does it. 

Harry’s palm reaches up to cup the side of Draco’s face, and he nods once. “Tell me three things in this room you see,” he instructs, voice firm as he adjusts his squat into a more comfortable position. He waits a few beats, Draco’s breathing still shallow as Harry continues to reassure in an even voice, “It’s okay, you can do it.” 

Draco fixes his gaze around the room. “The sheers on the windows, the...the frame on the dresser, and—” he looks beside him and nods, “Astoria’s scrapbook.” Harry’s eyes flicker to it for a moment and he gives an encouraging nod. 

“Perfect,” Harry says. “What are two things you can hear?” 

Draco takes in another shaky breath and closes his eyes. “The birds on the water,” he answers immediately. He opens his eyes and stares at Harry, “Waves crashing.”

Harry smiles. “And what’s one thing you can smell?”

The tightness in Draco’s chest begins to uncurl, the calming vibration of restlessness, the smoothing of jitters. A smirk tugs at his lips and he murmurs, “You.” 

Harry chuckles, amused. “How flattering.” 

His fingertips trace over the shell of Draco’s ear, the line of his jaw, the column of his neck. Draco inhales a shaky breath, the tension finally unravelling as Harry clasps their hands together. 

“Better?” he asks, lifting Draco’s hand and giving it a gentle kiss. Draco nods, his breathing even. He tucks an errant hair behind Harry’s ear. 

“Much,” he whispers, leaning forward to brush his lips against Harry’s mouth. 

The kiss isn’t frantic or heated; it’s slow and lazy, the tip of Harry’s tongue gliding across the roof of Draco’s mouth, a sensation so overwhelming and hot, his toes turn in an involuntary curl. Draco grips at Harry’s shoulder as their tongues slide over each other, and he leans back into the chair when Harry begins an awkward straddle on Draco’s lap. 

“What are you doing?” Draco whispers, hands gripping onto Harry’s hips as he grinds down. The friction makes Draco exhale a sharp gasp, and he slams his head into the back of the chair. 

“Just having fun,” Harry answers in a cheeky tone, combing back the fringe on Draco’s forehead. His chuckle is rich and warm when Draco lets out another gasp, hips bucking up. “Yeah,” Harry whispers with a nod, head tilting to the ceiling, a low moan escaping from his lips. “Yeah, keep doing that.”

Draco does.

**\--**

  
“You said that was Astoria’s scrapbook,” Harry says as he buttons his jeans and pulls his hair up in a messy bun.

“Hm,” Draco replies, leaning against the wall, eyes closed. His fly remains open, and his penis is hanging flaccid but he’s too loose limbed to move, too overwhelmed with a vision of Harry on his knees, his mouth wrapped around him, half-lidded eyes piercing into Draco’s with such fire he was certain his legs would give out. 

“What’s in it?” 

Draco sighs. “Memories.” He scrubs his face, pushing off the wall to get himself to rights. Astoria loved this room, with its sage green duvet, crisp white throw pillows and the vase she always kept filled with flowers on the bedside table. 

It’s empty now. 

“Come on,” Draco says, grabbing the scrapbook and heading out of the room. There’s a sudden burst of guilt over the fact he just got off in this room where his wife died, with someone else, and if he’s going to deal with that internal crisis he’s going to do it in another room.

They walk into the living room and Harry sits on the sofa, one leg tucked under a knee, shifting to face Draco. His arm stretches along the back, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of Draco’s neck. It’s comforting. 

“Why are you here?” Draco asks, focusing on the scrapbook in front of him. 

Harry’s hand stops. “Truthfully?”

Draco levels a stare. “Preferably. If you can manage it.”

Harry snorts and shrugs. “I missed you.”

Draco blinks. “Oh. I...Oh.” He squeezes the sides of the scrapbook and huffs out a laugh. “So you’re just gonna Floo over whenever you’re feeling a bit lonely?”

Harry’s smile is so infectious, Draco is sure that stars are born from it. His fingertips brush through Draco’s hair again. “Perhaps. If you’re okay with that.” 

“I mean, if you insist,” Draco says, affecting indifference, but when Harry’s smile grows, he can’t stop his own lips tugging up too.

“Good. Chances are I would’ve kept doing it, anyway.” 

Draco rolls his eyes. “Because rules never apply to the Great Harry Potter.” 

Harry scoots closer. “Not when it comes to you.” Before Draco can respond, Harry nods to the scrapbook. “Can you show me what’s inside?”

“Er, sure,” Draco manages, failing at ignoring the increase in his heartbeat. He opens the cover, and peers over the photos for the second time that day.

This time they get to the very end.


	14. Chapter 14

**  
**-May 2020-**  
**

  
“Teddy’s coming home in a couple of weeks,” Ginny says, licking malt vinegar off her finger. “You should go and see him.”

“I know,” Harry answers, taking a bite of his burger. He hasn’t seen his godson in almost five years. Teddy travelled abroad to America to pursue a graduate degree at NYU. He had been such a staple in their family, slotting into place like a fourth child. Harry’s missed him a considerable amount. 

“Has he decided what he wants to do with his Gender Studies background?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers. “He wants to work on a curriculum at Hogwarts for kids regarding gender and sexuality, create a community amongst everyone. It’s lonely when you’re coming to terms with who you are and you’re away from family.”

“Merlin, ain’t that the truth,” Ginny says, giving her chip a thoughtful chew. She reaches for the vinegar and douses the fries again. Harry’s sure it’s nothing but vinegar soup by now. “I mean, I realise that we had many more stressful factors back then, being child soldiers of a war,”—they share an eye roll at the preposterousness of it—“but it would’ve been nice to know we weren’t all alone in who we fancied or how we identified.”

“I heard Minerva has been working harder to have a more inclusive environment, and they have made some good efforts, but Teddy really wants it to be done properly.” Harry’s chest swells with pride at Teddy’s accomplishments, how hard he worked at uni and then applying for the Master’s programme at NYU. He agonised for weeks over whether he’d be accepted and when the letter came in the post, it was like Teddy was that little ten-year-old boy all over again, bouncing around with his letter from Hogwarts. 

“He’s done well for himself,” Ginny agrees, taking a sip of her pint. “It’ll be good for him. You know, he’s been dating someone.”

Harry doesn’t hide the surprise on his face. Ginny has always had a keen way of finding out the important bits of people’s lives. She attributes it to growing up in close quarters with six brothers; she maintains that knowledge is power, and the philosophy of Ginevra Weasley-Potter is to always have a pocket of blackmail to hang over them for personal gain. 

“How did I not know this?” Harry wonders out loud through a mouthful of chips. 

Ginny exhales a long, gusty sigh. “Because you don’t call your godson and you don’t pay attention. His name is Lucas, in case you were wondering. It’ll be nice to mention to him when he comes to visit.” 

Harry nods, a bit dazed. “Thanks.”

They eat in companionable silence. Ginny heads to the bar to order another pint, returning with one for Harry. “You’ve been distracted,” she says. “And not because of work. You’re seeing someone.”

Harry chokes on his beer. 

“What?” he rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What makes you say that?”

Ginny’s smile is triumphant and all smug, pointing at a piece of chip on Harry’s face. “Well, for one, your reaction just now, and two, Hermione kinda let it slip.” 

Harry takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. “What exactly did she reveal?”

“Well, not much,” Ginny admits, flicking salt bits off her fingers and resting her arms on the table. “I was hoping you would tell me. But only if you’re ready.”

Harry should tell her. Ginny’s his best friend, and when things got more serious with Draco, Harry didn’t hesitate to tell Ron or Hermione. There wasn’t a remote hint of surprise from them, much to Harry’s chagrin, but they were delighted. Supportive, even. Hermione looked almost thrilled at the idea.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen either of you this happy,” Hermione admitted, and Ron agreed. 

So it shouldn’t be that difficult. Ginny won’t judge him; she never judged him when he came out as bisexual, and she supported him during the press release of that (and almost went on a personal crusade at the erasure of it all in the press). She even suggested opening the marriage after Al was born when they were both frazzled and worn thin with parental responsibilities and wanting to explore more about themselves. And in the end, when they realised an open marriage wasn’t for them, they never regretted trying it. She won’t judge him. Harry knows all of this, and yet his vocal cords have ceased to work.

Ginny slides into the booth next to Harry, taking his hand in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” she whispers, “it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it. I’m here when you’re ready.”

Harry puts his glasses back on. “It’s Draco Malfoy,” he mumbles. 

There’s a pause. “Okay, I just wanna make sure I heard this right. Did you say _Draco Malfoy_?”

Harry gives a sharp turn, curious about the reaction he’s going to receive. He knows they had fought in the past about Draco, when Harry expressed suspicions about Albus’s friendship with Scorpius, but he’s shocked when all he receives is an amused smile. Harry’s cheeks warm and he grabs at his pint taking a long, burning gulp of beer. 

“Yes,” he gasps in answer, and clenches his eyes shut. 

“Oh, we need something stronger than this, because I want to know _everything_,” Ginny declares, and before Harry can protest she’s gone and at the bar again. 

When she returns, she’s carrying two tumblers of whisky, and it appears she has asked for doubles. Harry, with gracious appreciation, accepts the glass of amber liquid. 

“Not yet,” Ginny says, nodding to the glass. “You down that and I’ll get nothing out of you.”

Harry snorts, giving the tumbler some distance from him with a careful push. He raises an eyebrow at Ginny, waiting for her to speak again. He’s worried that Ginny will think this is some kind of post-divorce-midlife-crisis, when the reality of it all is that Draco makes Harry feel the most free he’s felt in a long, long time. 

“I’m not that surprised, you know,” Ginny says after a while, her head tilting to one side, her gaze somewhat faraway. “You always were...invested in him.”

“I was not!” Harry argues, his heart skipping. 

“Yeah, you were,” Ginny quips, all casual, as though they are discussing something mundane like a grocery list. “You were always so obsessed about Albus’s relationship with Scorpius. And all the blokes you ever hooked up with were all...similar. I always wondered.” 

“Oh my god,” Harry says in disbelief. “This is so humiliating. Can I have the whisky now?”

“Soon,” Ginny answers, the sparkle in her eye a bit too mischevious for Harry’s liking. “Merlin, Al is gonna lose his mind. Oh no,” Ginny says as Harry’s eyes widen. “Not because of it being a man, but because it’s his best friend’s dad.” She pauses, her face growing serious. “You will tell the kids, right?”

“Of course,” Harry says, his shoulders slumping at the prospect that Ginny thought otherwise. 

It’s then, in admitting he’ll tell his children about this, that he realises he’s also admitting the seriousness of this...this _thing_ with Draco, whatever the hell it is, and that means coming to terms with far more serious feelings than he can contemplate right now. Harry pushes that down to another place in his mind. 

“So, how did it happen?” 

Harry shrugs. “How does it ever happen? Hermione was Astoria’s Healer when she was sick. We just kept...running into each other.” Harry face scrunches up in an incredulous look. “It was weird. I don’t know, it all fell into place.” 

“You really like him,” Ginny says in awe. When Harry looks at her, she’s smiling. “Does he make you happy?”

Harry considers the question. He reflects on the way Draco makes him laugh like no one else, how he bitches about Harry’s guilty pleasure of terrible pop music, how he adores the way Harry prepares his coffee. He thinks about Draco gasping above him, eyes focused on Harry as he takes Draco in his mouth, the way Draco tastes on his tongue, salty like the sea. How his chest blooms with pleasure, and the quick dizziness of something else. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I think he does.” 

“Then that’s all you need,” Ginny replies, pushing the tumbler to him. “Now drink up.”

**\--**

  
The start of Harry’s week is a blur, and he copes by ignoring his duties at work and doing everything he can to have Tracy conjure up excuses she to get him out of meetings.

“Eventually they will catch on,” she says, leaning against the doorway, “and I will not take any responsibility. None. This is all on you, Mr Head of the DMLE.” 

“I doubt a meeting about a meeting about funding for...Oh fuck, what the hell was it for, again?”

“Proposal of a budget to update wand holsters for the Auror and Hitwizard departments.”

Harry pauses. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Tracy vows, crossing a finger over her heart. 

“That’s...not going to matter—”

“Or!” Tracy says with an inordinate amount of over enthusiasm, “You can attend the meeting about budget approval for the next DMLE conference’s food menu. In case sandwiches are more important than wand holsters.”

Harry leans back in his chair and sighs. The office is stifling, and he doesn’t know when his job started to be more of a chore than a place of comfort. Harry used to enjoy coming into work, loved the rush of people in the Atrium, having a sense of purpose in helping shape the Ministry into what it is now. He wanted the world after Voldemort to be safe again, a place of happiness and wonder and, after he accomplished that, every aspect of his life began to drift into a mundane routine. It turned into meetings about meetings, introductions to proposals, and events, and more events with no purpose but feigning importance. 

Harry hates that he has to be relied on for everything. 

“Maybe I need a holiday,” Harry thinks out loud. 

“Probably,” Tracy concedes. “But we both know you’re dying to have a say about those sandwiches. You always want the final vote on sandwiches.”

Harry scrubs his chin with the back of his hand and sighs. “Trace, do you ever think like sometimes you just need a change of pace?”

Tracy tilts her head. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“I don’t know, sometimes I just think... things could be different.” 

“Harry,” Tracy says very slowly, setting a stack of parchments on his desk. “Are you going through one of those midlife-crisis situations? Get divorced, buy an island, start shagging a bunch of men and women half your age?” 

Harry snorts, and huffs out a laugh. “Maybe,” he answers, biting his lip and shrugging. “Maybe I am.”

Tracy’s eyes grow soft with concern. “Hey, is everything okay?”

Harry leans back in his chair, curving his head to the magicked window portraying a garden of tulips against a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. It looks peaceful, serene, like how he wants to be right now. Most days, Harry’s left feeling pulled at both ends, ripped up, and sore. Except when he’s with Draco. 

There’s a burst of affection inside of Harry’s chest at the realisation, and he closes his eyes for a moment to quell the slight sense of panic that comes with it. He cannot, will not, be having this crisis in his office mid-afternoon. 

“I don’t know,” Harry says to himself, closing his eyes for a brief moment, “but hopefully it will be.”

Tracy nods. “Shall we get back to sandwiches, then?” 

“Yeah,” Harry answers with a chuckle, “let’s get back to the bloody sandwiches.”

“I knew you’d see it my way,” Tracy says and her lips tilt into a smug smile, grabbing at the parchment. She pulls her quill from behind her ear and reads over the parchment in her lap. “Just so you know,” she says softly, “it’s not giving up if letting go makes you happier.” 

Harry stares at Tracy, who glances up from her stack. There’s a stillness between them that roars in Harry’s ears. “Okay,” he whispers, and then pauses for a beat. “Thank you.”

Tracy’s smile is wide and bright. “Not a problem. It’s what I’m here for.”  
****

***.*.*.***

  
Draco almost cancels his appointment with Imogen. Almost.

He remembers that Hermione had inquired about his next appointment when he met up with her last and she always texts him afterwards asking how he’s doing. She never asks for details, ever the professional Healer, but she asks questions about his well-being, probes to find out if he’s eating properly, and wonders if he’s met up with anyone during his week. 

“So,” Imogen begins, her face impassive and calm. “How have you been?”

Draco’s eyes widen in surprise. She’s never asked this question before. “Good. I think. The nightmares aren’t happening as much anymore.” 

“Oh, that’s good,” Imogen replies with a happy smile and she begins a fierce scribble on her parchment. “Is there anything else you want to share?”

Draco inhales a deep breath. He considers if he should talk about the hurricane that is Harry—all of his bright smiles, an effervescence that almost brings Draco to his knees every time he sees him. He thinks about how green Harry’s eyes are when he’s just waking in bed, when he turns over and smiles, reaching out for Draco. How Harry’s face and chest flush when his mouth is on Draco’s cock, cheeks hollowed, and lips red. 

“I never told you before,” Draco says instead, “that I’ve been having panic attacks.”

Imogen continues to look at Draco with no judgement or concern. It’s somewhat unnerving. 

“And they were consistent. I used to try to work through it. I’d think of Astoria, or a happy memory about her, and then it would help calm me. I would seem better.”

Imogen nods, and writes on her parchment, waiting for Draco to speak again.

“Then it changed.”

“How?” Imogen asks, a curious upswing in her voice. 

“I...met someone,” Draco confesses. Imogen’s eyebrows raise in interest and he adds, “Is that a bad thing?”

Imogen shakes her head. “No,” she says, warmth emanating in her eyes, “Finding companionship after loss is never a bad thing.” 

“Really?” Draco asks, eyes widening with surprise. 

Imogen’s smile is fond with affection. “I know this is an adage that’s used a lot, but everyone grieves differently. You’re not telling me about getting married, or that you’re speeding into a relationship and moving in together. Happiness isn’t something you should have guilt about, Draco,” Imogen says. “It’s unfair to you.” 

Draco’s mind races as he mulls over Imogen’s words. Is what he has with Harry a relationship? Does this mean he’s doing something wrong? His chest starts to constrict and he places his hand over his heart. 

“What are you thinking?” Imogen asks in a gentle tone. 

“What if I’m doing this wrong?” Draco whispers, closing his eyes and to stifle the burning sensation. “What if I’m a bad...a bad husband?”

“How could you possibly be a bad husband?”

“I don’t ever want to replace her,” Draco rasps. “I never want to feel like I’m replacing her. What if that’s what I’m doing? What if I’m just giving her up for something else and—”

“Draco.” Imogen’s tone shifts to firm. “Draco, look at me.” 

Draco looks into the older woman’s eyes. Her expression is steady. “There is no wrong in all of this. You’re doing everything you can, and you are mourning. The road of grief is never forward facing.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?”

Imogen’s smile turns gentle and knowing, scooting forward in her chair to place a soft hand on his knee. “Sometimes, Draco, you have to take a leap of faith and just let go. Let it fall.”

_Let it fall_, Draco thinks. Maybe that’s what he needs to do. Jump off the proverbial cliff, accept his world as it is, and let go. Let it all fall.

**\--**

  
Deep, dark, grey clouds predict an oncoming storm. Draco peers up to the sky from underneath the cinema awning, shielding his eyes with his hand. It’ll be any moment now that the atmosphere opens up, an onslaught of a torrential downpour on the edge of reality.

Draco hopes that Harry makes it without being subjected to the capricious behaviour of the weather. He could go inside, but the secret truth is that Draco wants to see Harry rounding the corner, in the hopes that his face will light up when he catches sight of Draco leaning against the brick wall waiting for him. 

Just as Draco’s looking down at his mobile to give Harry a ring, he sees a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, and finds Harry walking down the pavement, hair whipping around his face from an aggressive gust of wind. He reaches up and brushes the mess out of his eyes, his scarf wrapped loose around his neck, whipping from side to side against his tight black tee.

It takes all of Draco’s resolve not to run up to Harry, grab him by the shoulders, push him against the rough red bricks of the cinema’s wall, and give him a filthy kiss. He blinks a few times and focuses on his shoes instead. 

As Harry draws closer, Draco gives a disapproving stare. “You’re late.”

Harry peers down at his watch. “The movie isn’t for another 20 minutes.”

“I told you to be here five minutes ago,” Draco counters, brandishing the tickets. “I like to get the proper seat.”

“It’s a matinée,” Harry responds, bemused. “How many people are here for a matinée?”

“You have an excuse for everything, don’t you?” 

Harry’s lips tilt into a self-satisfied grin. “Pretty much.”

“Come on, you git,” Draco mutters, walking towards the cinema entrance. 

The cinema is relatively empty when they walk in, save for a few patrons who seem to be here to watch the other films available. It’s a smaller establishment, one that has limited runs of independent films. 

“What film are we seeing again?” Harry asks, making his way to the snack kiosk. 

“Amelie,” Draco answers, studying the list of what’s on offer with an unnecessary degree of scrutiny. He slants a sideways glance, “Are you able to read?”

Harry shoves an elbow into Draco’s side. “Fuck off.” 

Draco chuckles, with a quick shake of his head. “Nope.” 

“Yes, I can read.” Harry heaves a dramatic sigh. When they move forward in the queue, Harry rests his hand on the lower part of Draco’s back, and Draco tries to suppress a shiver. 

“It’s important information,” Draco reasons. “The movie has subtitles. It may be too much for you.” He can’t hide the teasing smirk on his face. 

“I honestly don’t know why I put up with you,” Harry mutters to himself. 

Draco leans close to Harry’s ear and whispers, “Because I’m fantastic at getting you off, that’s why.” 

Harry’s hand grazes over to Draco’s hip, tugging him with a hint of roughness that has Draco almost stumbling into his arms. “Are you, now?” he murmurs, his lips a whisper away from Draco’s.

Draco searches over Harry’s face, the green of his eyes eclipsed by dilated pupils, a heady, heated stare as Draco’s eyes rove and land on his mouth before flicking back up to his eyes again.

“We’re gonna miss the film,” Draco whispers, throat dry.

Harry nods, shaking his head out of his daze. “Right.” 

He releases his grip and walks up to speak to the young girl behind the counter, who has no doubt just seen two adults flirting in public. Heat rises on the back of his neck. 

“Do you want anything?” Harry asks over his shoulder, and Draco shakes his head. Harry pulls out a few Muggle notes and pays, resting a hip on the ledge while they wait for whatever Harry has ordered. Draco wants to push him up against the hard surface, shove his thigh between Harry’s leg just to see how he’d react. 

The popcorn and a large cup of what appears to be some kind of fizzy drink appear, and Harry quickly grabs them, following Draco into the theatre. 

Draco has told no one about this film and what it means to him. How he and Astoria had gone with a couple of friends to view it when it made the rounds in London, and how Astoria wept afterwards. It touched Draco inexplicably, and when he considers it now, almost two decades later, he realises his own silence afterwards was because the film moved him in such a visceral, personal way that he could never find the words to express those emotions. 

“Oh shit,” Harry says as they settle into the old theatre chairs. “I forgot sweets.”

“Harry,” Draco begins, “we don’t need sweets.”

“What are you on about?” Harry whispers fiercely and rises from his seat. “The point of going to the cinema is for the sweets!” 

“Are you serious?” Draco hisses. “The movie is about to start!”

“I won’t be long,” Harry promises with enthusiastic insistence, leaning over to place a quick peck on Draco’s cheek. “I figured you could fill me in if I’m late.” 

Draco scowls and then Harry’s gone down the aisle before Draco has a moment to even complain about the ridiculousness of that statement. He adjusts in his seat as a few more afternoon patrons fill in, fidgets with his trousers. Draco doesn’t want to admit that he’s nervous. He worries Harry will hate it, or maybe he won’t be able to pick up the subtleties that have always touched Draco with such intensity.

There’s a reminder on the screen to turn off any mobile devices, and Draco does so, just as Harry comes back with a huge bag filled from the pick and mix. 

“Merlin,” Draco mutters. “Are you trying to buy the whole pick ‘n’ mix area?”

“Hush you, or I won’t share,” Harry admonishes as he settles back into his seat. Draco absently reaches into the bag, pulling out a handful and flinging them into his mouth.

And then Draco chokes on a flying fucking saucer. The dry-as-hell rice paper casing sticks to the roof of his mouth as a puff of sherbet powder hits the back of his throat and then instinct runs on high alert. Draco grabs for Harry’s drink, gulping needily. His mouth is overwhelmed with a wave of cola, which only ignites an unwelcome effervescent effect, causing him to choke harder. 

Harry stares at him, amused.

“Dusty,” Draco chokes, “disks,” another cough, “of death from _Hades_,” he rasps, hitting a balled fist against his chest. “Who the fuck puts flying saucers in a pick n’ mix?”

Harry’s shoulders start shaking so hard it’s certain someone could mistake him for sobbing into his hands. 

Draco rolls his eyes, licks away the sherbetty foam that’s frothed at the corners of his mouth, and takes another tentative sip of cola before muttering, “Fuck you.”

Harry removes his glasses off and wipes at his eyes. “Oh my god,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You’re _so_ dramatic.” 

“You literally put the least appealing sweet in a pick ‘n’ mix bag, what the fuck did you expect to happen? Who enjoys flying saucers? Seriously?”

“I do,” Harry’s answer is simple, accompanied with an easy shrug, pulling out one of the death saucers and popping it into his mouth without so much as a wince as he chews on it. “You don’t have to eat my sweets if you’re so offended by them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco says, reaching into the bag and performing a careful inspection of a cola bottle before giving it an approving nod. 

Harry leans over to brush his nose against the spot under Draco’s ear that makes him lose all brain power. “Oh, I can think of many ridiculous things we could do right now.”

Draco shoves at Harry with playful ease as the lights dim, whispering, “Pay attention.” 

“Yes sir,” Harry whispers back, and his smile shines against the bright light of the screens. 

Draco forgot how magical this film made him feel when he first saw it. How that carefree search to brighten a person’s life resonated deep within him, that now all he wants is for Scorpius to have the beauty of life that Astoria had given Draco. Harry’s movements are scarce throughout the movie—except at the end when the main character and the love interest kiss, when he grazes his knuckles over the back of Draco’s hand, a finger locking around one of his own. 

When they leave, they’re silent. Draco has the sudden urge to do something reckless, go somewhere on a whim and walk around an unknown city, get lost through winding streets in search of shops in another language. The world looks bright, more cinematic, and Draco takes in the smell of the recent rain, the wet pavement, the sunshine peeking through the clouds. 

“So,” Harry says, “is this your way of telling me you want a garden gnome?”

Draco pushes him and laughs. “Sod off.”

Harry stops at the end of the street corner and turns to Draco. There’s a bustle of people around them, the echo of cars on the road, and Harry’s gaze is so intense, Draco thinks he may burst. 

“No, really,” Harry says so quietly Draco almost doesn’t hear him. He reaches out for Draco’s wrist. “I really did like it.” 

Draco nods, and swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “That’s good,” he whispers. “I’m glad you liked it.” 

“So what do you want to do now?” 

Draco’s stomach rumbles and places a hand over it. “I’m starving. All those cola bottles have made me ill.”

Harry chuckles. “Well maybe if you didn’t eat them all, you wouldn’t feel so terrible.” He reaches for Draco’s hand and laces their fingers, tilting his head in the direction in front of them. “I know a good sandwich shop we can go to. I’ll take you there.”

They walk in silence. Harry holds his hand the entire time.


	15. Chapter 15

**  
**-May 2020-**  
**

  
Pansy appears at Draco’s house the next evening with two bottles of wine and a bag filled with various cheeses and declares, “Daphne’s out with friends and it’s time you provide some answers.”

Draco, sitting in his chair near the bay window with a book perched in his lap, blinks at the announcement and removes his reading glasses as Pansy makes her way into the kitchen. He follows her, leaning his shoulders against the wall, and with a flick of her wand the cheeseboard flies out of the cupboard, blocks of cheese swirl out of a paper bag, and multiple cutting spells begin with elegant ease. 

He’s always loved watching Pansy with magic. Even when they were children, magic almost emanated out of her like art. Astoria was the same, but where Pansy’s is aristocratic and rigid, Astoria’s flowed like the ocean, a gentle breeze, and it moved within her whole body. Draco ignores the ache in his chest. 

“White or red?” Pansy asks over her shoulder. 

“White, please. What answers do you need?” 

A wine glass floats to Draco’s outstretched hand. Pansy grabs her glass and turns against the counter. Her unwavering gaze makes him shift, and Draco attempts to keep his face impassive. 

“Is it who I think it is?” 

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Who?” 

Pansy narrows her eyes. “I’m trying to be kind here, Draco,” she says with caution. “But we can do this the other way.”

Draco distracts himself with swirling the wine in his glass. “And what way is that?”

“Embarrassing you,” Pansy replies with a shrug. “Great entertainment for me, much torture for you. But I’m interested if you are.” 

Draco laughs and takes a liberal drink of wine. It’s light and fruity but still on the drier side. Pansy came prepared—she brought Draco’s favourite combination. 

“If you’re here to ask me if I’ve been spending time with Harry, the answer is yes.” 

There’s a pause and Pansy stretches out a plum-lacquered fingernail. “You’re shagging him,” Pansy clarifies. 

“Hm, define ‘shagging’,” Draco counters. 

“Don’t get cheeky with me,” Pansy says. “You’ve got that happy shagged glow.”

Draco snorts. “What does _that_ mean?” 

“It means that someone has been giving you orgasms, and it hasn’t been a solo project,” Pansy says, her lips tilting into a smug smile. 

“My, you’re being saucy today. You sure you weren’t hitting the bottle before you came over?” 

Pansy hums, tapping a fingernail against her wine glass. “And it’s getting serious.”

“It’s not getting serious,” Draco mutters, avoiding Pansy’s gaze. 

“What was that?” Pansy asks, flicking her wand at the cheeseboard, and levitating it into the living room. “You’re gonna have to use your words, Draco. Mumbling is beneath you.” 

Draco sighs, following his friend, and settles on the sofa. Pansy tucks her ankle under her leg, leaning over to grab a cube of cheese. The silence stretches for a long time, Pansy chewing thoughtfully, and Draco attempting to calm the pounding vibration of his heart. 

“It’s okay, you know,” Pansy whispers, turning to stare out at the sea. She turns to Draco with a sense of sadness and an emotion that appears to be a mixture of worry and love. It’s so open and unlike Pansy’s usual sarcastic sneer that Draco can’t stand it. He almost hates it. 

He flicks invisible lint off his jeans. Harry’s been rubbing off on him too much—the whole casual Muggle look is becoming a bigger staple in Draco’s wardrobe. It occurs to him, in a bone-chilling, awakening thought how Harry has somehow infiltrated into every fibre of his life—the nightly texts or phone calls; their meet-ups that are functionally dates; how, in every free moment that Draco has, all he thinks about is seeing Harry again.

“Oh fuck,” Draco whispers, clenching his eyes closed. “What the fuck am I doing?” 

“It seems like you’re learning to live again,” Pansy says. “Maybe even learning about lo—”

“Don’t,” Draco says voice hard, eyes snapping open. “I _love_ Astoria. I never wanted this. I never wanted her to leave us. That fucking curse ruined everything we had and—”

“Draco, no one is saying you don’t love her!” Pansy cries, standing up quick and pacing the living room. “But you can’t punish yourself for something you had no responsibility for. You’re allowed to be happy!” 

“What if I don’t _want_ to be happy?” Draco yells, jumping up and clenching his fists on his sides. “What if I deserve all of this? She wasn’t supposed to die. It shouldn’t have been her! It should’ve been me!”

Pansy gasps, the shatter of glass a dull clatter against the roaring rush of blood in Draco’s ears. He’s dizzy and hot all over, and then Pansy is there, arms wrapping around Draco’s waist, a sudden heat burning behind his eyes, and unwelcomed tears fall onto his cheeks. He hates this, hates this horrible turn in his life that he has to live out the rest of his days knowing that he will always be less of a person without Astoria. He has to live in a world so ugly it took away the only person who ever understood him. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry.” Pansy’s whispers are shaky, her arms twisting around Draco’s side so tightly it hurts. His knees want to give out, and he’s very aware that he hasn’t cried this hard since the day that Astoria took her last breath, Draco clinging to her lifeless hand with Scorpius sobbing beside him. 

Somehow they make it to the sofa without Pansy breaking any contact around Draco’s shoulders. He settles into the crook of her neck, and she holds his hand with so much love and affection, like the vulnerability of a child, begging for the comfort of a parent when they are afraid of the dark. 

“Draco,” Pansy whispers, her voice hoarse, and he realises that she’s been crying, too. “People love you. I love you. Astoria loved you. You don’t deserve to carry this...heaviness.” 

“I think I do,” Draco whispers back. “She didn’t deserve to die and I—”

“No,” Pansy says with vehemence, pulling Draco in closer, his face squished and uncomfortable against her chest. He doesn’t bother moving. “Don’t say that again, please.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, feeling exposed and embarrassed. 

“I didn’t know,” Pansy says, pulling back, her eyes smeared with eyeliner, messy and black. “I didn’t know you felt that way.” 

Draco scrubs his face. “I didn’t know I felt that way until…Well, now.” 

Pansy heaves a dramatic sigh, her normal disposition returning. She grabs her wand and cleans up the mess on the floor. “You have ruined my makeup and now you owe me dinner.”

Draco laughs, raking his trembling fingers through his hair. “It’s a deal.”  
****

***.*.*.***

  
St Mungo’s canteen is bustling with the combination of visitors and hospital employees. The clank of utensils and dishes, the raucous roar of laughter, and the tinny timbre of conversation echoes in the large cafeteria as Harry waits for Hermione to finish her last appointment.

His mobile rumbles against his hip, and he pulls it out to find a text from Draco. 

_I can’t get that song out of my head and I blame you. _

_I knew you’d have a strong affinity for 80s pop music._

_Maybe you’re just addicted to love._

Harry grins at the screen. He had invited Draco to a local cover band playing at a venue he had learned about from Teddy before he moved to America. They used to go to gigs all the time, and it was Teddy who showed Harry the beauty of live music, that connectivity of the crowd to the musician. Music, he had learned from his godson, can be an eternal link between the heart and soul. 

Harry hadn’t been to a gig since Draco’s panic attack. Harry didn’t want to push it, but he thinks about how Draco’s face lit up when he talked about a particular band he saw with Astoria, pointing at the ticket stubs in the scrapbook she created made. He’s realised he wants to share moments like that with Draco, wants to create memories with him. The ache in his chest as he considers the intensity of his desire to be with Draco frightens Harry. But he’s awake, freed from a dreamless sleep he’s been in for years.

So they’d gone. Harry remembers the way Draco moved to the music, how he took his time backing into Harry, smoothing their bodies together, his hands reaching behind him to settle on Harry’s hips. When he tilted his head back to rest on Harry’s shoulder, he shivered as Harry brushed his lips over the nape of Draco’s neck, slicked with salty sweat. Harry, too hot and desperate for that heady flavour, took a swipe with his tongue, almost biting down on the taut skin when Draco swirled a reflexive grind back into Harry’s hips. 

They didn’t stay much longer, not after Draco spun around, hands messy in Harry’s hair pulling him down into an intense and needy kiss. He tasted of the gin and tonic they shared at the venue’s bar, oozed of warm ocean breeze and Harry wanted Draco so much, wanted to sample every inch of skin with such an eager ferocity it made his chest tighten in a tide of unbearable need. 

“Let’s go back to yours,” Draco’d said, voice husky even against the thrumming bass of the venue. 

Harry adjusts in his seat, giving his head a sharp shake to stifle the memory. He can’t be walking around St Mungo’s with a bulging erection, lest he ends up in the Prophet with a report that he has overdosed from an erectile dysfunction potion. 

With luck like Felix Felicis, Harry lets out a breath of relief—Hermione is weaving her way through the crowd, her messenger bag strapped across her shoulder as she settles into the seat across from Harry.

“Why did you choose the corner?” Hermione asks with a curious tilt of her head. 

“Furthest away from the crowd,” Harry says nodding to the large group beyond. “But we can always go somewhere else.” 

Hermione looks around, humming in agreement. “That’s probably a good idea. I’ve been working round the clock the last few days and I’m sick of seeing this place.” 

They walk in silence down the street to the cafe where Harry had seen Draco only a few months ago. It’s like another lifetime, as though there was never a time in which Draco wasn’t wrapped in Harry’s life. Harry can see Ginny’s smug grin, as it tells him that Draco Malfoy has always held a spot in Harry’s mind, it’s just now he’s been able to act on it. Harry’s grateful for Ginny’s support, and just as appreciative of her lack of judgement, despite her incessant teasing. 

He wonders if it’s because, in some weird way, she could move on first. Or if it’s that Ginny understood, even before, that Harry’s interest in Draco was more than worrying about Albus or about the acrimonious nature of their childhood. 

“Sickle for your thoughts?” Hermione asks as she settles two cups of coffee on the table Harry snagged for them. She removes the messenger bag with grace, looping it over the back of her chair.

“Just thinking about the way things are, I guess,” Harry says, blowing into his cup. 

“Which means you’re thinking about Draco,” Hermione says. 

Harry shifts in his seat, occupying himself with his coffee. When did he become so fucking heart eyed and sappy? Harry was never like this with anyone, not even with Ginny in their earliest parts of their relationship. He yearned for her, and loved being around her, and missed her when she left during her Quidditch years, but...it was never like this. 

“Oh Harry,” Hermione says softly. When he looks up her eyes are filled with the warmth of fond affection. “You are totally smitten.”

“Shut up,” Harry mutters. “You make me sound like a teenager.”

“Well, you kind of look like one,” Hermione says with a grin. “It’s not a problem though. I won’t tell anyone. It’s actually...cute.” 

Harry lifts his glasses and scrubs his face. “This is mortifying.” 

“Nah,” Hermione says, a light kick colliding with his shin under the table. When Harry chances a glance, Hermione’s eyes are bright with a delighted smile on her face. “Okay, maybe a _little_ mortifying for you. But it’s good fun for us.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Cheers.” 

The conversation lapses and Hermione’s face shifts from amused to serious. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen you this happy?” 

Harry exhales through his nose. “No. But I will take a guess you’re about to tell me.” 

Hermione’s hand wraps around his. “It’s been a long time,” she admits in a soft voice. 

Harry squeezes and she releases their hold. Then, like a tidal wave so big and strong, Harry is burning with questions about the friendship Hermione had with Draco and Astoria. He wants to know more about this person that Draco was before, wants to know if she can see the kind of happiness in Draco now that he had with Astoria. Harry doesn’t want to compete with Draco’s wife—he knows he’ll never replace that love and he has no desire to. Harry well understands that—Ginny has such an important position in Harry’s heart, no one he loves after her will ever change that. 

Love. Harry’s cheeks flush, and the overwhelming rush of realisation is so heady and strong his head is woozy. He tugs at his jacket, and yanks it off, letting it fall to the bottom of his chair in a sloppy pool. 

“Oh fuck,” Harry whispers, tilting his head to the ceiling and squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh my fucking god.” 

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asks, her voice coloured with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Harry repeats, and shakes his head. “I...I think, um, I just had a realisation.” 

Hermione lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Okay,” she intones. “I’m gonna need more information.” 

“Er,” Harry starts, gripping his coffee cup harder. A bubble of laughter escapes his lips and he’s sure it sounds more deranged than amused. “I, um, I think— I mean, I—” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I think I’m in love with him,” he whispers. 

“Oh,” Hermione says, her smile growing blindingly wide. “That’s...wonderful.” 

“I believe it’s pretty much the opposite of wonderful,” Harry mutters and takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee. “I feel like a pillock.” 

“Why do you feel like a pillock?” Hermione asks, tilting her head and to inspect Harry with scrutiny. “Now you're just being an idiot.” 

“Oh bugger off,” Harry grouses, shoving at her arm sitting on the table. 

Hermione laughs, resting her chin in her hand. “Are you going to tell him?” 

Harry snorts. “And make a bigger bellend of myself? I think this is enough to last me a while.” 

“You’ll be surprised, Harry,” Hermione says with a knowing grin. “I believe you’ll be thoroughly surprised.”

Harry’s stomach does a sharp flip and fills with the anxious flutter that he recognises as butterflies. He could ask what she means by that, but he’s still reeling from the fact he’s ridiculously in love with Draco Malfoy.

**\--**

  
Harry invites Ginny over for dinner the next night, deciding to make one of her favourite dishes as an attempt to get on her good side. They need to discuss plans for the summer since the kids are coming back next weekend, and Harry keeps trying to convince himself his invitation is solely because of that, but really it’s that he misses her. He misses being able to talk about their days, the ring of her light laugh, the teasing tone of her voice. For so much of their marriage they didn’t talk; now that they are back to a good place again, he wants to have that as much as possible.

And there’s the whole falling in love with Draco bit, too. Harry’s mind has been reeling since he told Hermione yesterday, and the sudden panic-giddy-overwhelming-too-large-to-comprehend notion that this man who was once a childhood nemesis has filled a section of Harry’s soul and heart is almost too much to bear alone. 

The light knock on the front door jolts Harry out of these thoughts, and when he opens the door Ginny is standing rosy cheeked, tousled hair flowing in loose curly rivulets over her shoulders. She lifts a paper bag as if to prove her purpose. 

“I come with dessert,” she announces, walking past Harry and into the kitchen. After setting the bag into the fridge, she removes her scarf and jacket with ease, resting them on a barstool. “Smells good. What are you making?”

“Aubergine rollatini,” Harry answers, resting a shoulder on the wall and crossing his arms. He grins when he sees Ginny’s delighted smile. 

“I am so grateful that you dated that Italian bloke years ago,” Ginny proclaims, lifting her hands like a prayer. “He brought so much culinary joy into my life.”

“He wasn’t Italian,” Harry corrects, “His father was a world renowned chef, but he was Mexican-American.”

Ginny waves a dismissive hand. “Details,” she says, reaching into the cupboard for a glass to fill it with water. “In the end we lucked out. You figured out you liked men, and I got great food. It’s a win-win.”

“I love your optimism,” Harry says, and he means it. 

Ginny lifts her shoulder in a shrug, taking a small sip of water. Her smile is soft as she shakes her head. “I’m not here to talk about the kids’ summer plans, am I?”

“Well,” Harry begins, gliding the top of his toe across the tiled kitchen floor. He scrunches his nose and rubs the back of his neck. “Not entirely?” 

“Beer,” Ginny announces. 

Harry wrinkles his eyebrows. “What?”

“Beer,” Ginny repeats. “We’ll need it. And here’s why. Since I reckoned this wasn’t just about linking up summer holiday plans, because you were making dinner...” Ginny walks to the fridge and opens it up, “...in the middle of the week...” She reaches in and pulls out two bottles of beer, “...and insisting I come over...” She hands one to Harry, “...I provide beer. Shall we sit?”

Harry nods and follows her into the living room. 

“What’s going on?” Ginny asks in a gentle voice, fingers rotating the bottle around her knee in slow motion. 

Harry sighs, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. “Oh, just me making my life more complicated.”

Ginny smiles. “So basically nothing new.” 

Harry kicks Ginny’s calf with ease. “Shove off.”

“Spill. I’m starving.” She leans forward and calls, “Hey Google!” The device chimes, and she continues, “How much time is left on the timer?”

“You have ten minutes and fifteen seconds,” the familiar posh male voice responds. 

Ginny frowns. “You changed the voice.”

“Albus,” Harry replies airily.

“Ah,” Ginny says. “Well, you’ve got ten minutes.”

Harry takes a big gulp of beer. The burning sensation from the carbonation doesn’t mask the fact that his heart is hammering in his chest at the thought that for a second time in twenty-four hours he has to say out loud this new revelation. Ginny is waiting with undying patience and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I was out with Hermione yesterday and— Fuck, this is so fucking ridiculous,” Harry mutters. “And I realised that— Well.” His eyes flick away and focus on the spot of sunshine against the opposite wall. “I realised that this situation with Draco is more serious than I thought.” 

Ginny regards Harry for a long time. He can hear the tapping of her fingernail against the glass of the bottle, in time with the beat of Harry’s heart. 

“Are you telling me you’re in love with him? Because I was aware of that already.”

Harry’s head jerks up. “What?” he exclaims. “How can you know something before _I_ even knew it?”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Harry, I don’t know how you are constantly surprised that I am always about five steps ahead of you. Even after all this time.” 

Harry’s mouth hangs open, at a total loss for words. When he finds his voice, the timer goes off, a blaring triplet ring that always manages to makes Harry’s jaw clench. 

“Oh Merlin,” Harry mutters, and yells, “Hey Google! Stop!” He manoeuvres off the sofa. “Fucking hell that alarm is annoying.” 

Ginny giggles and follows behind Harry. “Oh, don’t take out your frustrations on the electronic device,” she teases, saddling beside him and grabbing the oven mitts out of his hand. “You go set the table up. I know you haven’t yet.” 

They eat in peace, Ginny complimenting the food with such reverence that it has Harry laughing until his stomach hurts. She joins in with him and it’s so lovely to see her so joyous and alive, it makes Harry’s heart swell. 

“This is so incredible,” Ginny swears, shaking her fist with passion. “Merlin, I miss your cooking.”

Harry shifts the hand resting on his chin to hide his smile. He loves cooking, and Ginny is always so complimentary about it. Sometimes, when he’s alone in his flat, Harry aches for the sounds of excitement from his family during supper, how they the kids used to love to help with preparation. Over time it became something a nuisance, Albus and James turning their nose up at the tasks because they had better things to do like typical teenagers, and Harry working so often the tradition faded.

“Thank you,” he says around the tightness in his throat. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Ginny nods, leaning back in her chair and taking a careful drink of her beer. “You look good. Content. Happier,” she comments. 

“So everyone says.”

“But it’s true,” Ginny inspects the dining area and nods to the living room. “You’ve decorated more, too. It’s nice.”

Harry grins. He doesn’t tell her about how Draco had taken him out and insisted that he add more soul into the flat. “The only life in that place is your children’s rooms. You can’t live like that,” he demanded. 

Now every day is a reminder of Draco, with the throw pillows, decorative artwork, and mirrors. He even helped Harry select proper frames for pictures he was gifted from Ginny. Harry didn’t ask where he had learned all of this from—he reckoned Draco adopted it from Astoria—but he couldn’t stop his overwhelming sense of appreciation for the gesture. When they got back to the flat, Harry had pushed Draco into his bedroom and teased him with his mouth until Draco was shaking and breathless. 

“Yup, you are definitely besotted,” Ginny says with amusement. “Totally, incomprehensibly, utterly besotted.” 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “I am. I just don’t know how the fuck I’m gonna tell our kids about it.” 

Ginny shrugs. “The same way I did—honestly. You should be thankful I did it first.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not dating your son’s best mate’s dad, whose mother passed away not even a few months before.” 

Ginny leans forward, pushing her plate away to rest her arms on the table. “Albus, like the rest of your kids, worries about you. He may brood about it a bit, but that’s just…” She waves a hand in front of her. “That’s just how he looks.”

Harry snorts out a laugh. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yup,” Ginny says, taking another swig of beer. She tilts her mouth to the side in thought. “But if you’re serious about this thing you have with Draco—which I know you are—then he will learn to accept that. He loves you.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “So what you’re saying is I can do this?”

“Of course you can,” Ginny says. She gives a teasing smile. “You defeated Voldemort, you think you can’t tell your kids you’re in love?”

“I’d rather defeat the Dark Lord for a third time,” Harry admits and Ginny tilts her head back and laughs.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
“Oh, fuck yes,” Draco gasps, his body wobbling so hard Harry can feel the shift on the bed when he falls onto his elbows. Harry’s tongue only grows more insistent, and a long moan escapes Draco’s mouth, sending shivers up Harry’s spine as he hums against his arsehole.

He pulls back, gently smacking Draco’s hip, and rasps, “Turn over.” 

Draco’s panting is heavy and loud, but he obliges. Harry brushes his fingers over his quivering stomach, and peers up at Draco’s half-lidded eyes, hair dishevelled against the pillow under him. He’s bloody perfect. 

“Hold up your legs,” Harry instructs and Draco nods, wrapping his hands underneath his knees. When Harry settles flat on his stomach, he licks a long stripe over Draco’s hip, trailing a wet messy line down back to Draco’s hole. A smile spreads over Harry’s mouth as he opens Draco further, wanting to fill all of his senses with that salty musk that makes Harry intoxicated with need. 

Draco’s pleas grow more insistent at Harry’s continued onslaught with his tongue, pushing and sucking with abandon. Saliva trails down his chin, his neck aching and he doesn’t care. He wants to make Draco sound like this forever, that heady noise so brilliant and beautiful Harry wants to commit to memory the way he made Draco come undone with his mouth. 

“Hold my, legs, please, hold my legs,” Draco babbles, and Harry grips at his thighs, squeezing them and turning his head to poke his tongue past the rim. Above him Draco’s jerking movements grow aggressive, and Harry bends his neck up to get a full view of Draco’s mouth falling open to elicit breathless moans, his hand wanking at a rapid pace, whispered affirmations escaping between his lips. Then he’s arching his back and crying out as he comes. His whole body shakes under Harry's hand.

Harry pulls back, rolling his throbbing neck before taking his time setting Draco’s legs down. He wipes a palm over his dripping chin, a soft chuckle falling from his lips at Draco’s wanton position. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Draco whispers to the room, flinging an arm across his eyes. His hand moves an absent wave over the mess on his stomach and cleans himself. Harry barely notices, eyes drawn to the dull, discoloured Dark Mark on Draco’s arm. It’s faded, like a scar more than a bright tattoo, and Harry crawls across the bed until he’s sitting next to Draco. His fingertips cast a gentle brush on the faded etching. Draco jerks his arm away. 

“What are you doing?” he whispers as Harry pulls his arm down and examines it closer. He doesn’t have his glasses on, so the mark is a blurry mess, and he whispers, “_Accio_ glasses” opening his hand for the frames to slide into. 

He puts his glasses on, examining the area where the Dark Mark mars Draco’s skin. Draco’s breath hitches as Harry glides a single knuckle over it and places a tiny kiss right against the ugly skull.

“Harry,” Draco murmurs, voice thick with emotion. His grey eyes shimmer in the low light of Harry’s bedroom, and Harry’s chest clenches. 

“Budge over,” he whispers. They situate themselves under the duvet, Draco lying on his back and Harry on his side, his fingertips tracing over Draco’s collarbone. Moonlight stretches over his pale skin, like the glow of a lumos. Draco closes his eyes, breathing settling into an even relaxed pattern, a hand coming up to enclose over Harry’s. 

Every time Harry is with Draco, a new awakening breaks inside of him, like a dam has broken open and he’s flooded with understanding, that everything around him makes sense all because of the man lying next to him. After his divorce from Ginny, Harry was resigned to never finding someone to equal the love he had for her; he’d thought even though their marriage fell apart, no one would ever see him like she did. He thinks Draco does. 

A low chuckle breaks him from his thoughts, as Draco’s hip brushes against his erection. “You wanting round two?”

“Nah,” Harry answers, settling further into his pillow. “I can wait.”

“Kinky,” Draco murmurs, pulling Harry’s hand up to his mouth for a kiss. Draco looks so fucking beautiful right now that Harry almost tells him how much he loves him. Almost. 

Harry clears his throat and licks his dry lips. “Hey Draco?” he whispers, voice hoarse. 

“Hm?” Draco lifts both of his eyebrows, eyes still closed. 

Harry turns his palm and laces their fingers together. “Are you...going to tell Scorpius?” 

Draco slants a sharp look to Harry. “About what?”

Harry blinks. “You know,” he says quietly. “About us.” He pauses. “Wait, have you told anyone?”

Draco sighs and turns back to the ceiling. “Of course. Pansy and Daphne. Hermione and Ron.”

“You didn’t tell them, I did,” Harry says, adjusting his leg over Draco’s calf. 

Draco shrugs. “Still counts.” He bites his lip for a moment and asks, “Who else have you told?”

“Ginny. She thinks I should tell the kids and...I agree.”

Draco’s thumb grazes over Harry’s hand. “What if he hates me? I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing,” he whispers. “It’s beginning to feel like I’m losing her. I don’t want to lose her.” 

“You’re not,” Harry whispers back. He reaches up to brush the dishevelled locks of hair off of Draco’s forehead, thumb brushing his high cheekbone. “I won’t let you.”

Harry listens to Draco’s shuddered breaths even out, watches the way his throat bobs as he swallows hard, touches his temple when his eyes flutter shut. He doesn’t speak for a long time.

“Okay,” he says in a voice so quiet Harry almost doesn’t hear. He opens his eyes again and nods. “I’ll tell Scorpius. About us.” 

Harry rubs his thumb over Draco’s chin, his lips. He smiles when Draco kisses it.


	16. Chapter 16

**  
**-June 2020-**  
**

  
Platform 9¾ booms with parents waiting for the Hogwarts Express, and the combination of the deafening roar of laughter and thrumming anticipation in the warm summer air sets Draco’s nerves on edge.

Draco shifts back and forth on his feet, anxious energy all-consuming. He adjusts the cuffs of his deep purple linen shirt as a distraction from the surrounding noise. Harry’s hand rests against the small of his back, rubbing in circular motion. Draco relaxes in an instant. 

“I don’t understand why you’re wearing half of your shirt out,” Harry muses, eyes still trained in the direction where the train is to arrive.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Merlin, you’re so clueless about fashion. As I’ve explained before, it’s called a French tuck. You seem to only know how to choose between a v-neck or a crew neck.”

Harry turns back and grins. “You like my shirts.” 

Which is true, as much as it pains Draco to admit it. He tilts back to give an appraising eye to the snug emerald green t-shirt and the slim fitted black jeans Harry is wearing, right down to his black dragonhide boots. Even with his hair dishevelled in a sloppy low ponytail, it makes Draco’s mouth water. Bloody bastard. He looks like walking sex in anything. 

“Doesn’t mean you’re in any position to comment on my sartorial choices,” Draco counters. Harry laughs, his hand trailing over Draco’s hip, wrapping around his wrist and giving it a minute squeeze before he brushes his lips against Draco’s ear. 

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” Harry whispers, and Draco suppresses a shiver. “It’ll be okay.” 

Draco takes a furtive glance around. A few parents have already caught sight of Harry, but the typical mob that used to plague him in his youth seems to have calmed over the years. They’re getting more than a few stares, but Draco can’t tell if it’s because these parents know who he is or the fact another bloke is hanging on the arm of Harry Potter. 

“How do you manage to walk around in public and not get mobbed?” Draco wonders. 

Harry chuckles and says, “Neville Longbottom is an incredible solicitor. He essentially helped contract with the major publications that I would participate in a number of articles and photos a few times a year as long as they’d keep their grimy paps off me and my family.” His eyes twinkle with amusement. “And if they want more, they gotta pay. Substantially.” 

Draco lifts an impressed eyebrow. “Wow.”

“Exactly,” Harry agrees with that smug smirk that always makes Draco want to kiss him. A horn blares in the distance and the two men turn to watch the Hogwarts Express pulling into Kings Cross. Harry reaches for Draco’s hand. “C’mon,” he says, nodding in the opposite direction. “Let’s go greet the kids.”

**\--**

  
Draco is looking for Scorpius when he notices the flash of bright red hair sprinting towards them.

“Dad!” Lily cries, weaving through the crowd with impressively efficient agility, colliding into Harry, wrapping her arms around his waist. Harry’s affectionate smile is so infectious Draco can’t help joining him. Lily pulls back and looks around. “Where’s Mum?”

“She’s busy working on a deadline,” Harry explains. When Lily’s smile fades into a frown he says, “She’ll be home this evening, promise.” 

Lily nods in contemplation before an idea dawns over her face. “Can we go to Fortescue's? I hear they have new flavours for the summer!” 

Harry chuckles. “Maybe.” He looks beyond the crowd, tilting his head to search the sea of people. “Where are your brothers?”

Lily shrugs. “Jamie was flirting with some fifth year Hufflepuff Chaser. I forget his name. Grant? Gabriel?” She peers off, startling as her eyes lock on Draco. “Oh! Hello, Mr Malfoy.”

“Hello,” Draco replies, cringing at the awkwardness of his voice. “Have you seen—” 

But before he can finish his sentence, he sees Albus and Scorpius running down the platform, their robes billowing behind them as their trunks wiggle behind them in the air. Their faces are flushed, hair wild, eyes wide and manic.

“Dad,” Albus demands, breathless and gasping for air between words. “Dad, we _have_...” he panted “...too go...” Another gasp, “...to the comic book store.” Albus rests his hands on his knees, calming himself down before looking up with imploring eyes. “It’s imperative.”

Scorpius stands behind Albus, face tinged pink from exertion. His chest heaves up and down and he swallows hard before he speaks. “The newest Squirrel Girl is out and we must have it!” Scorpius pauses, his smile bright. “Oh, and hi, Dad.”

“Hello, son,” Draco says, walking over and allowing Scorpius to embrace him in a brief hug. He turns to Harry, confusion etched on his face as he mouths, Squirrel Girl?

Harry shrugs, completely lost about the new point of interest between their sons. Scorpius pulls back to talk to Albus while Harry looks around, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he starts a mental headcount.

“Where the hell is Jamie?” he mutters, and as if on cue his eldest son comes through the throng, discarded robe hanging over his arm, clad in dark washed skinny jeans, white v-neck t-shirt and a flannel shirt cuffed at the sleeves. He’s wearing a slouchy beanie and Draco ponders how teenagers these days seem to use specific weather associated accessories year round. 

“Take your time,” Harry drawls, tilting on one hip. “It’s not like we have anywhere to be.” 

James pulls a guilty face. “Sorry, Dad,” he says. “I was catching up with a friend.”

Albus snorts and mutters, “A ‘friend’, sure,” dodging the playful punch that James attempts to snag on him. “Oi!” 

“Right!” Harry announces with a bit too much enthusiasm, “Shall we start at Fortescues?” 

There’s an overall hum of approval from the young crowd, leaving Harry and Draco to help shrink their trunks and make their way towards Diagon Alley. Between the loud crowd and the overall insanity that is three teenage boys and one pre-teen girl, Draco’s ragged and exhausted. 

“How the everloving fuck do you handle all of them?” Draco whispers as the group leads the way in front of them. 

Harry tilts his head back and laughs, a gentle hand resting on Draco’s lower back as they walk. “You learn to pick and choose your battles, and you nod your head a lot.”

“Definitely glad I only had one,” Draco mutters, and he grins when Harry laughs again.

**\--**

  
Several hours later, Draco and Scorpius return home, bags filled with the newest Squirrel Girl and several new booklets that Scorpius calls manga.

“It’s Japanese!” Scorpius had exclaimed, walking farther into the comic book shop to find the section he and Albus were hunting for. 

Draco, filled with immense confusion, quarter-turned to Harry, who raised his hands up in surrender.

“Don’t ask me,” he said, “I know fuck all what they’re on about.”

It appears, much to the dismay of Draco and his vault account, that this is their newfound interest. The boys spent far too much time in the small shop, leaving Draco and Harry to stand there, confused. Lily perused the shelves, studying the different comics and odd figurines on sale, while James leaned against a wall with a small smirk on his face as he texted on his mobile. 

Afterwards Scorpius insisted they go to Rabbit Foot to visit Jean-Michel and, most importantly, he wanted to show Albus the store where he got his turntable. Jean-Michel was effusive and engaging, finding new bands and albums for the kids to try out. 

Now in the comfort of their home, a nervous vibration rumbles through his veins, enveloping the undercurrent of exhaustion. He wants to tell Scorpius about Harry as soon as possible, just to get it done and over with but also because he doesn’t know how Scorpius will receive the news. 

Scorpius babbles away about the new manga series that he and Albus have invested in this afternoon, something about it being so popular that readers create a genre of art referred to as fanart and share it on the internet. Draco nods along, trying to gather his thoughts to broach the subject of conversation without making a complete tit of himself. He ambles into the kitchen to make some tea. Scorpius continues on with his small speech about the series, discussing the complexity of the character development, the beauty of the artistry. 

“But now that Albus and I both have a copy, we can text about it after we’ve read it, to discuss,” Scorpius adds with excitement. “I wonder if he’s listening to that album Jean-Michel gave him.” 

“Possibly,” Draco mumbles, occupying himself with the kettle, and pulling out two teacups. 

A stretch of silence lapses between them. Draco’s heart is hammering in his chest, and his stomach turns nauseated. He keeps telling himself he can do this and it’ll be alright. They’ve got this far together, haven’t they?

“Hey, Dad?” Scorpius asks, his voice so soft that Draco almost doesn’t hear anything. “Are you—you well?” 

Draco swallows hard and sighs. “Scorp, I have to talk to you about something.” He looks over his shoulder, “Maybe you should sit down.”

Scorpius’s mouth tilts down in an uncharacteristic frown, his eyebrows wrinkled in concern as he settles in a chair at the kitchen table. Draco settles across from him, raking his fingers through his hair to give his hands something to do.

“I want to begin by saying that I understand this may be difficult to hear and that you may not want to talk about it with me. If you want, you can even talk about it with your Mind Healer, ah—” Draco has a sudden mortifying stroke of temporary amnesia and cannot remember the bloody Mind Healer’s name. He pinches the bridge of his nose, counting slow breaths to calm his nerves. “Margaret? Macy? I’m sorry, what is her name?”

“Um, Margot?”

“Right, Margot. You could discuss it with Margot and—”

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Scorpius interrupts. “But...can you please just tell me what’s going on?”

Draco sighs and closes his eyes. “So, I started seeing someone.” 

There’s a brief pause. “Okay. Is that...bad?”

Draco’s eyes snap open. “No! I mean—I don’t think so.”

The furrow is back on Scorpius’s brow. “Okay,” he says stretching out the word. 

“It’s someone you know,” Draco confesses as the tea kettle whistles behind them. He shoots up out of his seat, taking the chance for something to do. His hands are shaking now, and Draco closes his eyes as he sets the kettle back down. 

“It’s Harry,” Draco murmurs. “Potter,” he adds, and he cringes at the sound of his voice. 

“You’re dating...Mr Potter?” Scorpius asks, bemused. 

Draco turns around to see his mouth pinched. “Er, yes. I—I guess I am,” Draco stammers. 

“You ‘guess’?” Scorpius repeats, his voice quizzical. “You’re dating Albus’s dad and you—you guess?”

“Scorp,” Draco whispers, “if this is uncomfortable for you—” 

Scorpius stands up with such force the chair screeches across the tile and almost topples over. His face is impassive when he speaks. “Is that all?” he asks, his voice flat. 

Draco’s shoulders sag. “Yes.”

Scorpius nods and walks out of the kitchen, leaving Draco alone. He continues to make himself tea. Scorpius’s cup sits untouched.

**\--**

  
Draco leaves to go for a walk.

It’s a choice made out of self-preservation. After Scorpius disappeared into his bedroom, leaving Draco alone in the living room, staring up the stairs, Draco tried to distract himself, to give Scorp the time he needed. Eventually the soft tones of music began to creep out of his bedroom, and Draco knew his son wanted time alone, but the overwhelming panic in his veins turned into a building tsunami, threatening to crash over him and pull him into the drowning depths of restlessness. 

Draco doesn’t want to drown. He doesn’t want his son to see him losing himself, having already witnessed Draco’s spiral after Astoria’s passing. Draco couldn’t bear to leave the room she died in, worried that in the depths of grief and suffering all the beautiful, wondrous moments that he shared with her would vanish. Scorpius witnessed Draco refusing food, screaming at Pansy and Daphne incomprehensibly, and hiding away in his bedroom alone, never leaving for days. 

The air is ripe with salt, a stretch of blue sky swirling into a deep orange-purple against the clouds. Earth crunches under Draco’s oxfords as he takes the concrete stairs down to the private shingle beach. It was where he had first seen Harry after Astoria’s funeral, where the genesis of this scary and wild journey began. Seafoam covers the pebbles and seashells, and Draco wonders if Astoria is amongst it, if her soul somehow comes back to him every day through the sea. 

When he comes back to the house, Scorpius is sitting in the living room, looking out the bay windows and staring at the water. He’s opened the windows and warm breezy air blows inside, a slight damp humidity in its wake. Draco goes to stand beside him.

“Mum sent me letters while I was at Hogwarts,” Scorpius whispers. “She told me that—” He pauses, taking in a shaky breath. “She told me that one day you may welcome someone else into your life, and that she wanted you to have that again.” He looks up at Draco, grey eyes shimmering against the setting light. “She told me it doesn’t mean you’re giving up on us.”

Draco pulls Scorpius close, squeezing him to his chest. Scorpius’s arms twist around his waist, a slight shake of his shoulders evident. Draco knows that he’s crying. 

“I’m so sorry,” Draco whispers, clenching his eyes shut. “I don’t want you to think—”

“No,” Scorpius interrupts, his voice muffled. He pulls back, eyes wet and so, so sad. “I want you to be happy. You were so sad when Mum died, and I don’t want you to be like that ever again.” He sighs and pulls back, wiping at his face and huffs an embarrassed laugh. “Merlin, this is silly.”

Draco squeezes Scorpius’s shoulders and shakes his head. “This is not silly. I loved your mother so much,” he whispers, his throat tightening. “I miss her every day, and I wish she was still with us.”

Scorpius looks up at Draco and the sad smile that etches his face breaks Draco’s heart. “I know that, Dad. This is weird, but it’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” 

At that, Draco can’t help but pull his son into his arms again. The burn of tears threatens his eyes, the familiar tightening in his chest twisting with emotion. Scorpius is such a good boy, so filled with love and understanding and forgiveness. Astoria was all of those things, too, and Draco can only hope that he can continue to let Scorp be true to himself, in a way that Draco couldn’t be at his age.

“I love you, Dad,” Scorpius murmurs with a final squeeze before releasing his hold. 

Draco chuckles and nods. “Love you, too.”

“So, um, would it be cool if I stayed at Albus’s for the night?” Scorpius asks with hesitance, rubbing his hand on his neck. “The new expansion of Fortnite just came out.”

“Ah, I see. Fortnite over spending quality time with your father?”

“Dad, you’re great, but this is _Fortnite_, okay? Few things are better than Fortnite.” 

Draco barks a laugh and says, “Well, who can argue with that?” and Scorpius’s smile is bright.

“See, Dad, you get it,” Scorpius says with a wink before bounding up the stairs to gather his things. 

Draco expels a long breath, his lips tugging into a small smile. Perhaps it will be okay, after all.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
“Dad, hurry up, we’re going to be late!” Scorpius calls from the bottom of the stairs.

Draco sighs, turning to the mirror to observe his outfit. The weathered denim Bermuda shorts are a slim fit on his legs and hips, accompanied by a charcoal grey v-neck shirt lying snug against his chest. He turns to side, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he looks down at the black boat shoes. Draco sighs, brushing anxious fingers through his hair.

Today he is 40.

Draco never knew that he would celebrate it without Astoria. He knows he was fooling himself into thinking he would somehow find a cure for her condition, that through the will of love alone he could keep her around until they were old and wizened. He wanted that with her so fiercely; he knows now he wasted so much precious time. 

“I’m sorry, my love,” Draco whispers to his reflection, scrubbing a hand over his face. He can’t afford to get emotional, not with Scorpius waiting for him in the living room to Floo to Harry’s. Harry insisted they do something for the occasion and Draco suggested something low-key. He didn’t want to focus too much on how he was moving forward without Astoria.

“Dad, seriously, we need to leave!” Scorpius yells, his footsteps creaking on the stairs. “What is taking you so long? I know you enjoy staring at yourself but— Oh.” Scorpius stands in the doorway, a surprised look on his face. 

Draco turns to his son and raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, you...look different.” Scorpius’s gaze turns assessing. “Are you okay?”

Draco swallows around the tightness in his throat. “I think I will be.”

Scorpius smiles. “I made sure that Mr Potter didn’t have anything you wouldn’t like.” 

Draco laughs. “Like what?”

“Oh, you know,” Scorpius shrugs, leaning against the doorframe, ticking up a finger as he lists things off. “No loud music, no surprise visits, no flowers, nothing with buttercream, and..." Scorpius's brows furrow in concentration. "I think that's it. Not too much. Well done, Dad.”

Draco tilts his head back and laughs, giving Scorpius’s shoulder a light squeeze. “I appreciate the fact that you’re watching out for my interests.” 

“Of course,” Scorpius says with ease, walking down the stairs in front of him. When they reach the fireplace to Floo to Harry’s, Scorpius’s eyes grow wide. “Oh! I forgot the most important bit!”

“What’s that?”

“I explicitly stated no Shawn Mendes,” Scorpius says with a serious nod before disappearing into the fireplace.

**\--**

  
Harry’s flat smells glorious with a familiar combination of garlic and thyme, mixing with a vibrant and rich melody of violin sifting through the air along with a low baritone voice. Scorpius beams.

“See? No Shawn Mendes!” Scorpius walks towards the kitchen and Draco follows. Harry stands in front of the counter, his back turned, worn jeans slung low on his hips, and when he reaches into a cabinet Draco’s eyes roam over the patch of revealed skin on his hip, exposing the tip of the lily tattoo. He takes a deep breath.

“Hey Mr Potter!” Scorpius greets with brimming enthusiasm. 

Harry turns, smile spreading across his face. “Hey Scorp. You know you can call me Harry, right?”

Scorpius shrugs. “Habit, I’ll work on it.” 

Harry chuckles, nodding towards the hallway. “Al’s in his room, by the way.” Scorpius smiles, with a wave. 

“Ta, Harry,” he says, hiking the rucksack he’s carrying filled with comic books and manga. “Hey Al!” Scorpius yells as he makes his way down the hall and Draco closes his eyes and pinches his nose.

“It’s as though he’s never heard of an inside voice,” Draco mutters.

Harry chuckles as he weaves his way over to Draco and stops, eyes roving over him, gaze darkening. “Well,” he says, his voice rough. “Look at you.”

Draco stares down at the outfit. “You said casual!”

“I know,” Harry murmurs, drawing closer and wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist. He places a kiss on the spot of Draco’s neck that makes his knees weak. “I like it,” he says, lips brushing along Draco’s chin, placing another kiss at the side of his mouth. “You look incredible.” 

“You’re so easy,” Draco whispers, eyes fluttering closed as Harry’s hands grab at Draco’s bum, pulling their bodies flush. He grazes his lips over Harry’s mouth, smiling when he hears the tiny gasp, before leaning further in. Draco’s hands cup around Harry’s neck, fingers getting tangled in the low ponytail as the kiss turns filthy and heated. 

Draco tilts his head and moans when their tongues collide, slick and wet. The nerves that have fired up all day dissipate in a moment, and Draco shivers when Harry’s fingertips slide and roam underneath his t-shirt, scratching along his hip. 

“Dad!” someone calls from down the hall, causing them to pull apart quickly, straightening their shirts and hair in a hurry. Draco also makes an effort to nonchalantly straighten his trousers. “I’m hungry!” 

Harry’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes dazed when he takes a deep breath before calling out, “It’ll be done when the alarm goes off!” 

“Well, how long is that?” yells back a deeper voice—James. 

Harry rolls his eyes and shakes his head, eyes steady on Draco. “Hey Google,” Harry says, “how much time is left on the timer?” 

“15 minutes and 20 seconds left,” Google replies in a male posh voice. 

“If they didn’t hear that they can ask themselves,” Harry grumbles, walking back into the kitchen and tending to the roasted potatoes. They appear to have just been pulled out of the oven, and as Harry tends to them, Draco realises that Harry has been cooking without magic. “We’re having lamb chops, and roasted rosemary potatoes, in case you were wondering.” He grins over his shoulder. “I’m told it’s your favourite.”

Draco nods, speechless. Scorpius must have told Albus and Albus told Harry, like some insane son-friend-father Floo tree. But what Harry doesn’t know is that Astoria used to make this meal for Draco every year for his birthday. That she would plan a special night for the whole family, settle into the kitchen with her magic and prepare everything to perfection. It was a part of her personal birthday tradition, and Draco loved watching her magic swirl in the air with a flick of her delicate wrist, her hair tied up in a loose ponytail. She was the epitome of gorgeous and made the whole ordeal appear seamless and effortless. 

“I know Pansy is bringing the wine but if you’re interested, you can—” Harry turns around, wiping his hands on a tea towel. His brows crease in concern. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Draco answers with a shake of his head, settling into the barstool settled in front of the kitchen island. He presses his sweaty palms onto the cool marble surface. “Just a bit...overwhelmed, I think.”

Harry lifts a hand in what appears to be a stasis charm over the food, making his way towards Draco. With a gentle swivel of the chair he slips into it and faces him. “Hey,” he whispers, fingers brushing along Draco’s hairline, grazing over his ear, “we don’t have to do this if it’s too much. Are you going to have a—”

Draco shakes his head. “No, it’s not that.” He manages a tight smile. “Just a lot to take in.” 

Harry’s eyes search over Draco’s face, hand cupping his chin. “I’m sorry,” Harry whispers. “I’m sorry it has to be like this.”

Draco nods, pulling at Harry’s hips, his arms wrapping around his waist and burying his face into his chest. The emotions of the day have made his anxiety’s control precarious at best, and he wants the warmth of Harry’s arms around him, to bury himself in that heady scent. He wants to find the level ground he’s needing. When Harry’s arms envelop him, a gentle hand resting at the nape of Draco’s neck, Draco closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath.

**\--**

  
Pansy and Daphne arrive via Floo with a cake from Draco’s favorite bakery—“Did you think we would forget?” Pansy drawls—and more wine than is necessary for four adults.

“We prefer options,” Daphne explains, settling various bottles of white inside of Harry’s fridge. Her white peasant smock dress with intricate stitched floral pattern and bell sleeves ripples as she straightens up. “Plus, anything left over means we have to finish it together next time.”

“Next time?” Draco asks faintly. 

Harry’s laugh echoes into the kitchen after a loud yell of anger erupts from one of the boys. The game is getting a bit intense. 

“Well yes,” Daphne says, closing the door to the fridge. “You realise that’s how new relationships work, correct? You can’t keep your boyfriend all to yourself.”

Draco sways with dizziness. “Boyfriend?”

“I demand a second round!” Jamie declares from the living room. “There is no way you didn’t cheat, Al!” 

“Oi, how can I cheat?” Albus retorts. “Just admit that my gaming skills are superior!” 

“Well what the hell is he, if he’s not that?” Pansy says, entering the kitchen to gather plates and utensils. It’s incredible how she can manage to pick up even the lowest of whispers. “You’re shagging like teenagers and the way he looks at you is like a puppy that just found its home. You cannot tell me you’re not dating.”

“Dating, sure,” Draco reasons, lowering his voice to a hiss and looking over his shoulder. “But we haven’t...I mean, you know, we aren’t—”

Daphne’s eyebrows fly up to her hairline. “Are you telling me—” Her voice also lowers to a hiss, leaning to the left to glimpse into the living room. “Are you telling me you haven’t confirmed anything? What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“I don’t know!” Draco whispers fiercely. “In case you forgot, I haven’t dated anyone since my wife, and before that I was just fucking shagging my way through the club circles. It’s not like I’m an exper—”

“Harry!” Daphne says in an over-enthusiastic voice. “Tell me, do you happen to have a preference between robust red or crisp white? We have a red that has been matured for nearly 24 months, and there’s a deep aroma of dark currants and blackberries, which I think would work perfect for the dinner selection, don’t you think?”

“Er,” Harry says, “Sure?”

Pansy snorts. “Nice one, Potter. Sweet or dry? White or red?”

Harry shrugs. “I like it both ways.” 

“I’m sure you do,” Pansy drawls, and Draco flashes her a scowl. She snaps her fingers, four wine glasses floating out of the bag perched on the counter and nods at Daphne, who reaches into the fridge for a bottle. “Best start with red, it’s best for what we’re having. It’s refreshing.” 

“Do you happen to have a decanter?” Daphne asks. When Harry gazes over to Draco with a slight panic on his face, Draco steps in.

“I’m shocked you didn’t bring one yourself,” Draco says with a raise of his eyebrow. “You’re lacking in your party etiquette.”

“Oh we did,” Pansy says with a snap of her fingers, and a decanter floats out of the bag. “That was just a test.” 

“Right,” Harry says with a nod, a grin tugging at the side of his mouth. “I’ll set up the dining room—” 

“Already done,” Daphne replies with a genuine smile, now holding two bottles of wine. “We’re ready when you are.” 

“Okay,” Harry chuckles. “I’ll gather the kids.” 

Draco watches Harry leave and takes a deep breath, his eyes trailing upward. “So help me, Merlin, if you two bints fuck this up—”

Pansy scoffs. “We’re not the ones confused about labels, Draco, darling.” She walks over and places a gentle kiss on his cheek. “It’s your birthday. Get your knickers out of a twist and have fun. You deserve it.”

The dinner goes by quick and smoothly, much to Draco’s surprise. Harry sequestered the kids to the living room, with the promise of extra gaming time for their cooperation. It seems to have worked, because Draco has yet to hear a single peep out from the other room. He wonders if Pansy cast a discreet Muffliato on them. 

In the lazy glow of the dining room of Harry’s flat, Draco is full, wine-buzzed and happy. They have cleared the plates, the wine is flowing, and Harry is sitting next to him, a light hand resting on Draco’s knee, thumb stroking small absent circles. 

“Well, I must say I’m impressed,” Pansy says, refilling everyone’s glasses. “The food was fabulous.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, sounding somewhat sheepish. He raises his glass as Pansy refills it. “It’s been a while since I’ve cooked like that.”

“It was delicious,” Daphne says. “You must make it again sometime.” 

Harry smiles. “Sure.”

“I’d say it’s a hard competitor to Astoria’s, don’t you think?” Daphne asks, turning to Pansy, who hums in agreement.

Draco’s heart pounds in his chest, and his stomach turns sour. He had been ignoring the dull ache of not having Astoria here on his birthday, and now it’s all coming back to him, like a flash flood in his mind, and he can’t control the sudden urge to run away. Harry’s hand tightens on his knee, bright green eyes wrinkling around the edges, and the tightness inside of Draco unfurls and relaxes. 

“I’m gonna show Draco the balcony,” Harry says, eyes on Draco. “There are some new flowers coming into bloom that I think he’d enjoy.” 

“That’s a good idea,” Daphne says quietly. 

Pansy leans over and fills their glasses with more wine than necessary. “Don’t want to run out,” she says with a wink.

The air is breezy and warm, the life of the city sparkling below. Harry casts a small Lumos that bathes the balcony in warm light, revealing the promised new flowers. 

“I have no idea what the hell they are,” Harry admits. “Neville helped me out with them when I first moved in. His love for plants will never die.”

Draco points to a bush, a long pillar of bright colours extending upward. “Gladioli for strength.” He turns to another flower bed . Harry takes their glasses with care and sets it down on the thick concrete ledge. “Daffodils for new beginnings.” Harry wraps his arms around Draco’s waist, pulling his back to his chest. “Lilies for purity.” A small groan escapes from Draco’s lips when Harry nips at his neck. Draco shoves away a little. “Behave,” he remarks with a grin. 

“You know I was never good at that,” Harry murmurs, his palm flat on Draco’s chest. They stand together in silence, looking over the balcony onto the street below, cars driving along the roads, people walking with friends and family, and the stars, forming and dying right above them. Draco leans back into Harry, rests his hand on top and laces their fingers together. 

Draco wonders, in the silence, if this could be enough. If he can be just as fulfilled with Harry as he was before he watched Astoria wither away to nothing. He wonders, surrounded by the night breeze and glow of a Lumos under vast stars, if this ease will remain and replace that guilt he so often experiences in its wake. Draco misses Astoria with such a deep ache that it almost hurts to exist, a loneliness that vibrates inside of his bones it leaves him shaking and unsteady. 

“Hey,” Harry whispers, pulling back a little to observe Draco, his eyes twinkling against the light of the night. A fingertip reaches up to stroke the side of his cheek. “You okay?”

Draco sniffs. “Yeah, maybe we should—”

The door opens behind them with the loud cacophony of a birthday song, and Draco turns to see Pansy holding his birthday cake, two sparklers poking from the top. 

“Didn’t want to ruin the beauty that is this cake with all those pesky candles,” Pansy whispers, her smile delighted. 

“Shove off,” Draco mutters, but smiles too. 

“Make a wish, Dad!” Scorpius says, a happy ring to his voice. 

Harry grabs at Draco’s hand and squeezes it, leaning close to whisper, “Yeah, make a wish.” 

In his heart, what Draco wishes is for the surrounding joy that has engulfed him today. That his son’s beaming smile and the adoration of his best friend and sister-in-law never cease. That the warmth of Harry next to him continues to ground him and that he never, ever forgets the way Astoria looked when she smiled at him. 

Draco takes in a deep breath and blows the glowing orbs of the candles out.

**\--**

  
By the time Scorpius and Draco return to the house, it’s late.

Scorpius had been practically falling asleep on Harry’s sofa, an exhausted Albus resting his head on his shoulder. 

“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Harry suggested, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. 

Draco smiled, brushing back a loose bit of hair from Harry’s cheek. “We can come back tomorrow if you’re so desperate to see me.” 

“It’s not only me,” Harry said with a smirk, nodding towards Albus. 

Draco pauses to chuckle at the thought, waving a hand to turn the lights on. Scorpius stumbles behind him in the fireplace, close to knocking Draco over.

“Sorry, Dad,” he mumbles, making his way towards the stairs. 

“Heading to bed?” Draco says, watching as Scorpius wobbles his way up the stairs. 

“Yes,” Scorpius groans. He stops for a second, swaying in his exhaustion, before saying, “Happy birthday, Dad.”

Draco swallows hard. “Thank you.” 

“Definitely going to bed now,” Scorpius says with conviction, disappearing into his bedroom. The soft click of his bedroom door echoes in the house’s quiet. 

Draco doesn’t notice the letter right away, sitting on the living room table. He only sees it when he goes to sit in his favourite wingback chair with a glass of water to help unwind. 

When he sees it, he almost drops his glass. 

He can’t recall how it got there, having not seen any owls all day, and the only thing that makes sense is that Pansy and Daphne stopped by before they went to Harry’s. The parchment differs from her other letters, crisper, alabaster compared to the muted beige. The only way that Draco knows it’s from Astoria is from the familiar royal purple wax settled in the middle of the trifold seam. 

With a long, fortifying breath, Draco takes the letter in his hands. He brings it up to nose, the heady scent of Astoria’s vanilla rose perfume filling his senses, and his eyes flutter closed. She’s in the living room again, smiling her carefree smile, her hair up in a messy bun, loose tendrils falling over her face. Her hands caress Draco’s cheek, over his neck and down his chest, a blazing trail of want and desire. And when she’s lying underneath him on the sofa, legs wrapped around his hips, breathless and panting, Draco is overcome with exhilaration. 

He pries his eyes open and circles back to his present reality: the empty living room, the gusty beach breeze, the crashing of waves on the surf. Astoria is not here anymore, only a mere memory away that fades with time. Even if he could preserve it all in a Pensieve, it would never be the same, just the torture of repeatedly reliving a dulled copy of a memory. 

This is the aftermath of living, the echo of a spirit. 

With trembling hands and blurry vision, Draco opens the letter.


	17. Chapter 17

**  
**-June 2020-**  
**

  
“It’s been a while, Draco.”

“Yes. It has.” 

“How have you been?” 

“Well, I am back.” 

“Yes, yes, you are.” 

Draco’s eyes stare ahead of him, fixating on an enchanted whiteboard in Imogen’s office that says _when you are no longer a prisoner of your pain you are free to discover and redefine yourself_ in golden calligraphy, small leaves and filigree fluttering out of the font and swirling around the edges. 

He reads the phrase over and over, considering the words “_prisoner of your pain_” and “_discover and redefine yourself_” how they sound foreign in his head, taste acidic on his tongue. Pain is all he has of Astoria, pain and memories that exacerbate more pain. Why would he not want to hold on to that a little longer? 

“My birthday was a couple of weeks ago.” The quote curls and unfurls again and Draco wonders if it’s mocking him.

“Oh?” Imogen says, in obvious interest. “And how was that?”

“Good,” Draco says. “I spent it with—” He pauses and swallows hard. “The person I’m seeing.” 

“The one you told me about?” Imogen asks and Draco nods. “And did you spend it alone with them, or was Scorpius with you?”

Draco notes that Imogen is particular with pronouns even though he’s never been explicit about his sexuality. A small grin tugs at the side of his mouth about her professionalism, how it slips out of her with such ease. His shoulders relax, that constant coiled tension in his body unravelling. 

“Scorpius was there. He has children, too. Scorpius’s best friend is one of them,” Draco explains, his hands fanning out over his thighs to steady their nervous shake. “It was nice.”

“But?”

“Astoria sent a letter.”

“Ah, I see.”

“What do you see?”

“Well, it affected you, yes?”

“Of course it did. It’s a letter from my dead wife, what did you expect?”

Imogen folds her hands on top of the parchment, her face impassive. She continues to stare at Draco, waiting for him to speak again. 

Draco clears his throat. “Sorry,” he mutters, not sounding very apologetic at all. It’s just this is all so exhausting, and he wonders if it will ever go away, if this dragging boulder of grief will become easier, lighter maybe, that he can become stronger and be able to fortify his soul to handle the anchor of torment. He doesn’t want to ever let it go, but he doesn’t want to feel debilitated. 

“It’s okay, you’re allowed to express these feelings.”

“She was always good about holidays. Birthdays, Christmas. Hell, she even studied up on religious Muggle holidays so that Scorpius could take part in the village’s activities and not feel left out.” Draco chuckles at the memory of Astoria poring over books about the history behind the Easter Bunny, her brow creased in utter confusion. 

“_They’re utterly mad_,” Astoria would whisper with a disbelieving shake of her head. “_A random rabbit just...delivers chocolate eggs? How am I to explain this to my son?_”

But true to her Slytherin nature, she was relentless and ambitious. She never wanted Scorpius to feel rejection if she could avoid it and she made sure he understood the Muggle world around him with as much pride and education as he had for his pureblood wizarding roots. 

“It was different not having her there,” Draco admits. “I turned 40 without her, and I don’t know what to do about that. Sometimes I forget about her, and I hate that. I hate that I forget about her when I’m with hi—”

Draco stops. His hands tighten on his knees. 

Imogen's gaze is steady. She gives a small nod. 

“I think it’s important to recognise that you’re not forgetting about her if she’s not taking up space every single second of your day. This is a normal path of healing.”

“But what if I don’t want that?” Draco whispers. 

Imogen hums. “Is that what you’re saying? That you want Astoria to take up all the space inside your head as well as your heart? Do you think that will help you have a productive life?”

Draco thinks about how Harry looks when he’s waking up in the morning, a lazy tilt on his lips as he scratches his neck when he wrestles himself out of the sleepy beginnings of his day. How every time they share the morning together, Harry always smiles, reaches over and brushes the fringe off of Draco’s forehead like Astoria used to. That after they have brushed their teeth and dressed, and before they get their coffee, Harry pulls Draco into his arms, tilts his head in for a deep, lingering kiss.

“_A perfect way to start the day_,” Harry will say. 

Draco shakes his head. “I guess not.” 

“Fear isn’t an enemy, Draco,” Imogen says. “Pain isn’t either. And they aren’t meant to define your whole existence.”

“I just don’t want to lose her,” Draco whispers, his voice shaky. “What if I wake up and she’s gone?”

Imogen smiles. “I don’t think that’s possible. Not when she’s made such an effort to be a part of your life now.”

**  
**-July 2020-**  
**

  
Large white tents cover the Burrow’s luscious green garden, the exact ones used during Harry and Ginny’s wedding. Molly Weasley’s preservation charms are, bar none, the best that Harry’s ever witnessed, the only person to rival it being Hermione, who claims hers cannot even come close.

Draco’s grip has not relinquished since they Side-Alonged from Harry’s flat. He can feel the thrum of nervous energy coming off of the other man, and when Harry chances a glance, his face remains calm and passive, aside from the small frown at the corner of his mouth. Draco’s eyes roam over the outside display of flowers, floating food, and seating arrangements, chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

“Where’s Scorpius?”

“Most likely inside.” Harry turned to Draco. “Hey, it will be okay.”

Draco huffs. “Sure. I’m here at a family engagement for my cousin whom I’ve never met because my aunt was shunned by my entire family. I’m sure this will turn out marvellously.” 

Harry’s gaze remains steady. “Draco.” 

Draco sighs, rubbing his hands on his trousers. “I’ll be fine,” he mutters. “But keep the smelling salts nearby.”

Harry laughs and gives Draco a lingering kiss. “It’ll be okay,” he whispers. 

Draco’s lips tilt into a wan smile. “We’ll see, right?”

**\--**

  
The set up for the party is beautiful. Molly has gone above and beyond to celebrate Teddy’s accomplishment with fairy lights strewn on across the beams of the tents giving off a warm ambient glow. The centrepieces are a variety of local wildflowers surrounded by bushy greenery, with floating candles positioned above the tables to offer more intimate lighting. Everyone gathers in the tent closest to the garden’s entrance, waiting for Teddy’s arrival with James.

“He’s coming!” Hermione hisses a fierce whisper, and the circle of bodies tightens, the energetic excitement palpable. 

Draco stands next to Harry, moving back and forth on the balls of his feet. Harry places a hand on the small of his back, the tension in his muscles relaxing.

Teddy turns around the corner, distracted by an animated James, who then points to the back garden. Everyone bellows, “Congratulations!” and the widest smile breaks onto Teddy’s face. He looks different than what Harry remembers—older, more sure of himself, comfortable in his own skin. A swell of pride spreads through his chest; he’s delighted to see his godson so contented. 

Everyone crowds around him, laughing and exchanging hugs and pleasantries. Harry stands back with Draco, who’s pulled him to the very corner of the tent, eyes fixated on Scorpius and Albus loitering on the outskirts of the circle. Scorpius looks enthralled by the sheer number of people surrounding Teddy, leaning in to say something to Albus, whose usual sombre expression shifts into a smile. 

“Scorpius is loving this,” Harry muses. 

Draco’s lips curl into a grin, and he hums. “Yes, he’s always loved the Weasleys.” He looks at Harry, eyes warm. “It appears they love him, too.”

“Well that’s because he makes it incredibly easy to love him,” Ginny says, coming over with three short glasses filled with a glittering green liquid. She brushes back a loose strand of hair that has escaped from her long side braid, her turquoise summer dress wisping around her gladiator sandals. “Hello Draco,” she greets, handing him a glass. “Be careful with that,” Ginny nods to the drink, her lips drawn in a serious line. “Charlie makes a mean jungle juice. Ask Harry about New Year’s Eve 2002.”

“Or not,” Harry says, giving Ginny a warning look. 

“Did it involve public nudity?” Draco inquires, an excited gleam in his eyes. 

Ginny smiles around her glass. “Maybe.” 

“And is there photographic evidence?” 

“Naturally. We have a whole album.” 

“I appreciate this,” Draco says, pointing a finger towards Ginny. “You have stronger Slytherin qualities than I ever gave you credit for.” 

Ginny grins, and glances at Harry. “He’s funny. You never mentioned he’s funny.” 

“Potter’s grasp on the concept of good humour is severely lacking,” Draco explains, taking a delicate sip of his drink. His eyes widen a bit. “You weren’t joking about this being dangerous.” 

“Told you,” Ginny says smugly.

“Hey, Draco!” Ron calls from somewhere in the mix. “Come have a taste of this godly creation!” 

“It appears I am being summoned,” Draco drawls, flicking a gaze between Harry and Ginny. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, please come and find me.” 

Draco weaves his way through the crowd with delicate ease. His tight white linen shirt accents the curve of his back, the sleeves cuffed up to his elbows, exposing the faded Dark Mark without an ounce of unease in his body. Even the black trousers cling tight to his long legs as though they are made for his body. It makes Harry want to push him against the wall and rip them off.

“Well, it wasn’t difficult to convince Jamie to spend an afternoon with Teddy,” Ginny muses, breaking Harry of his wayward thoughts. 

“Oh?”

Ginny chuckles. “No. It appears he’s still smitten with him.”

“What happened with Gabriel?” Harry asks. When Ginny’s eyebrows give a puzzled furrow Harry adds, “Ravenclaw? On the Quidditch team?”

“Oh, him,” Ginny says, taking a sip of her drink, waving a dismissive hand. “He’s still on James’s radar. But who can compete with Teddy?”

Harry chuckles. “I see. So this other bloke doesn’t have a chance.” 

“Not at all.” 

They stand in companionable silence observing the ongoing festivities before Ginny bumps into Harry’s shoulder. “Mum did a wonderful job, yeah?”

Harry hums in agreement. A high-pitched roar of laughter echoes through the tent as Teddy’s surrounded by several various coloured drink concoctions along with plates of food piled high before he settles down at one of the tables. “Poor Teddy. He’s not gonna catch a breath all night.”

“He’ll survive,” Ginny says. “It’s been almost five years. We’ve missed him. He looks good, though, doesn’t he?” 

Teddy’s hair glows in the yellow pool of light, cascading over his features in a warm halo. He tilts his head back in another loud laugh, holding onto one of the many drink options that have been shoved at him. Teddy is talking energetically about something, his hand waving in front of him with a dramatic flourish and it makes everyone around him laugh. 

“Yeah, he does,” Harry agrees.

“He knows, you know,” Ginny says, eyes on Teddy. “He knows about you and Draco.” 

Harry swallows around the sudden dryness in his throat. “How?” 

Ginny’s expression is unreadable. “James told him. Is that a problem?” 

Harry shakes his head. “No,” he croaks. 

He’s not disappointed with his son for confiding in Teddy about his current relationship status, he just doesn’t know how Draco will react to the news. Some days Harry catches the faraway look in Draco’s stare, that only happens when he doesn’t think Harry is watching him. It’s in the way he observes the sunset with such overwhelming sadness, that Harry knows there’s something troubling him, a demon he’s not yet revealed. 

Now Draco’s brushing deft fingers through his hair, smiling at Hermione and Ron, holding his drink with a delicate hand. Harry inhales a controlled breath and chews on the inside of his cheek. 

“Draco will be fine, you know,” Ginny murmurs, raising her arm to wave at Mark weaving through the crowd. “They know you care about him.”

“I know.” Harry sets down his drink concoction and ties his hair back. “I think he’s more nervous than I am.”

“I doubt that.”

Before Harry can answer, Mark shows up, wrapping his arms around Ginny’s waist, giving her a small kiss on her cheek, resting a hand on her hip. His hair is loose today, his dreadlocks cascading down to the middle of his back. His dress shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a beaded necklace with a wooden charm hanging in the middle. 

“My apologies for being late,” he says with regret. “My last appointment went over.” 

“Rough day?” Ginny asks, pulling back and grabbing her drink. Harry notices that Mark and Ginny are always touching each other—always keeping one hand on a shoulder, lower back, or arm. 

“Hm, a bit,” Mark says. “We’re getting quite far with this one patient, but sometimes it’s hard, and when they’re in the zone, it’s difficult to break away from it.” He shrugs. “Life of a speech pathologist.” 

“I think I’m gonna go save your boyfriend from familial doom,” Ginny says with a nod to Draco. “I suspect they’ll be escalating to drinking games very, very soon.”

“You don’t think he can handle his own?” Harry muses, observing the alarming rate of red-headed men surrounding Draco with too gleeful smiles on their faces. 

Ginny walks backwards with practiced ease. “He’s not had as much practice with the Weasley ways as you have,” she says, before turning towards Draco, her dress swishing around her legs. 

“You know, she worried about you,” Mark says in a voice so quiet Harry almost doesn’t hear him. “For a long while she thought—” He cuts off, as if to consider his words. “She just wants you to be okay, yeah?”

Harry watches Ginny sidle up next to Draco, resting a delicate hand on his elbow and leaning in to whisper into his ear. He tilts his head back and laughs, the long column of his neck bobbing. When he looks down at her and grins, that small bit of fringe that Harry always wants to brush back falls against his forehead in the glow of the fairy lights.

“You know, I think I am,” Harry murmurs with a nod. “I think I finally am.”

**\--**

  
Harry loses Draco.

Lose isn’t the best of descriptors, but he can’t find him, so he’s either passed out on one of the Weasley couches or, most likely, vomming at a nearby tree. 

After making many enquiries regarding his location, and meandering around the tents outside, Harry finds Draco inside the haphazard home that was the only lasting comfort in his youth. 

Draco is standing in the crammed sitting room, the familiar mismatched furniture and low, sloping first floor ceilings above his head that always made Harry feel claustrophobic, with Teddy. They appear deep in conversation, Draco’s back turned to Harry. He stands frozen to the spot, watching as they speak in a low, quiet murmur, Teddy’s smile warm as he reaches up to squeeze an affectionate hand on the side of Draco’s arm. 

Teddy catches sight of Harry standing in the middle of the small sitting room. “Harry!” he exclaims, walking over with wide arms, wrapping Harry up into a tight hug. “I’ve been looking for you all night.” 

“You were busy,” Harry says, pulling him closer. Teddy is sturdier than the last time they embraced before his Portkey activated for America. Then, he was thrumming with an excited, infectious glow, but underneath the surface, nervousness quivered. Now, he’s confident and strong in Harry’s arms, and Harry struck by the evidence of his growing up.

“He says you make him feel stable, you know,” Teddy murmurs against Harry’s shoulder before pulling back to look into his eyes. 

Harry swallows around the tightness in his throat, taking in a deep breath before he speaks. “You reckon?”

“I know it,” Teddy says, chancing a glance back at Draco. He leans into Harry and whispers, “I think he’s had a bit too much of that jungle juice and is reaching the handsy stage, so make sure you lock the door to the loo.”

Harry gives Teddy a playful shove which earns a loud laugh as he makes his way back outside to the party. Draco stands at a large wall of photos playing animatedly against peeling old floral wallpaper. He studies each one with a serious gaze, hands clasped behind his back.

“Find anything interesting?” 

Draco points to a particular photo. “This is your wedding day.” 

Harry studies the photo of Ginny in her wedding gown, a simple white empire waisted dress accompanied with a flower crown of white and orange daisies placed on top of her head. Her hair was much longer then, close to her hips, and Molly charmed the red locks to sparkle against the sunlight. She’s laughing in the frame, pointing off into the distance, and shaking her head in disbelief. Harry can’t recall the memory, but he remembers that day like a vivid dream.

When Harry saw her walk down the short aisle of the garden at the Burrow, he couldn’t stop the prickling of tears in his eyes, the wave of emotion at how perfect she was. Her smile was mischievous, and her over-dramatic wink to Harry had him bursting with laughter. He felt so much love for her, he didn’t know if it would ever be possible to love again with the intensity he had for her.

As she reached the end of the aisle, she looked up at him and whispered, “The fun’s just getting started, huh?” 

Harry shakes his head, pulling himself out of the memory. “Yes,” he says, his voice hoarse. “It was a fun day.” 

Draco hums, pointing to another photo of Harry on his wedding day. He’s looking off into the distance, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, eyes crinkling a little at the corners before turning to the camera and grinning. He doesn’t speak for a long time.

“You look different here.”

“Youth will do that to you. Had shorter hair then.”

Draco shakes his head with too much aggression, mussing up his hair. “No,” he murmurs. “That’s not it. You look different.” He turns to Harry, grey eyes naked and open and...emotional. “You look sad.”

Harry stares back in shock, his mouth opening and closing several times before he attempts to speak. He remembers that day—he _was_ sad and on edge, like a small grey cloud hung over him, niggling at him with a depressing temptation. He felt sad that his parents, his godfather, and his brother-in-law weren’t around to celebrate one of the happiest moments of his life, grief stricken at the loss of so much before he ever endeavoured to do something of his own free will, a choice he had fortified on his own—marrying someone he loved with every ounce of his being. He wanted that with such great desperation, wanted to have the family he never experienced, to give a child unconditional love in all the ways he never did. 

“Yeah,” Harry admits in a soft whisper. “There were moments where it was sad.”

Draco grabs for Harry’s wrist, pulling him close so their chests are touching. His eyes are alight, searching over Harry’s face with such intensity it makes Harry’s neck and face flush with heat. Draco leans closer, brushing their mouths together, his tongue flicking out across the seam of Harry’s lips. Harry bites down on his cheek to suppress a moan.

“Bollocks to being sad. Are we allowed to leave yet?” he whispers, peppering open-mouthed kisses over Harry’s chin and down his neck. “Because I have a few ideas of things we can do right now.” 

“Um.” Harry inhales a sharp gasp when Draco’s teeth graze over the sensitive spot on his neck. “I think I’d have to let everyone know—”

“Already done,” Draco says.

Harry pulls back, and Draco gives an impish grin. Harry chuckles and shakes his head. “Fucking Teddy.”

“I certainly hope not,” Draco drawls, hands squeezing Harry’s hips as he grinds against him. Harry shudders at the contact. “Otherwise this would be awfully awkward.”

"Enough talk. Just bloody Apparate us."

Draco’s grin turns heated. “Demanding. I like it.” 

They Apparate to Harry’s flat.

**\--**

  
Harry walks into work on Monday whistling a song from the newest Kishi Bashi album. Draco played it after they Apparated to Harry's flat, right before he pushed Harry onto the mattress and began unbuttoning his jeans.

“I want to suck you off,” Draco had murmured in a gravelly voice. “But you must tell me when you’re about to come.” He gave a lopsided grin at Harry’s confused expression. “I hate swallowing.” 

Harry nodded, whispering, “Okay.” Draco smiled, and without warning, the warmth of Draco’s hot mouth encompassed him, sucking with abandon. Harry threw his head back against the pillows, biting out a raspy, “Oh, fuck.”

Turns out Draco Malfoy gives head like a fucking pro.

“You’re in a good mood,” Tracy notes without looking up from the stack of parchments in front of her. She snaps her fingers and a pile of memos fly into Harry’s hand. 

“Am I not allowed to be?” Harry asks distractedly, flipping through the various memos from different departments before setting them down on her desk and taking a sip of his tea. He raises a challenging eyebrow.

“Well, that depends,” Tracy says, resting her chin in her hand. “Is whoever you’re screwing gonna keep it up? Because I’m appreciating this glow you have going on.”

Harry sputters his tea, spilling some over his shirt, and muttering a curse. 

Tracy’s smile is smug. “So who is he?” 

“What makes you think it’s a he?” Harry mutters, waving his wand and muttering a _Tergeo_ at the offending spot.

Tracy levels him a stare. “Seriously? You haven’t dated a woman since—Okay, fine I’ll humour you. So who are _they_?”

Harry can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “He.”

Tracy throws her hands up. “See? Why did we have to go through all that trouble? For what?”

“One,” Harry begins, ticking off a finger, “it’s pretty biphobic and reductive of you to assume that I only date men, so—” Harry snaps his fingers a couple of times. “Get with the times. And two—” He reaches down to grab his stack of memos. “It’s none of your business,” he calls over his shoulder, kicking the door closed behind him. 

A memo slips under the door and lands on Harry’s desk.

_See if I screen your calls when the Department Head of Ludicrous Patents Office wants to take you out for lunch. xx_

Harry tilts his head back and laughs.

**\--**

  
The Department Head of Ludicrous Patents calls to see if Harry is available for lunch, but, as always, Tracy comes up with an elaborate reason to explain Harry’s busy schedule.

“Don’t mistake my loyalty for sycophancy,” she says sternly as Harry walks out of his office in a hurry to meet Draco for lunch. He’s running late. “Also, could you be a love and get me my favourite chai latte from my favourite coffee shop?”

“Where is your fave—” And before Harry can even finish his sentence, Tracy is brandishing a small piece of sticky parchment to Harry between two fingers. 

“Extra sticky so you don’t lose it,” she murmurs, looking down at a magazine in front of her. “Oh, make sure you have a good warming charm, yeah?”

Harry sighs and nods. “Fine.” He walks backwards a few steps and says, “But that’s only because you’re my favourite.”

“There’s the spirit,” Tracy says with an unenthusiastic fist pump as she continues to read her magazine.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
Draco pulls his phone out for the fifteenth time to check to see if Harry has texted him. He’s finally at the quarter-past mark and he’s just decided it’s acceptable to text about the lateness, when Harry barrels through the duo glass doors, long locks of hair frazzled and wild, a frantic look etched on his face.

When Harry spots him, Draco's edge of unease dissipates, and a warm smile spreads across his face.Heat spreads from Draco’s stomach to every appendage of his body, right to the very tips. 

Harry leans over to give him a quick kiss before brushing his fingers through the fringe of Draco’s hair. “Hi, I’m sorry. Got held up.”

“Important bureaucratic nonsense that needed handling?” Draco teases.

Harry makes a face. “More like my secretary was giving me a pile of shit and now I owe her a chai latte.” He raises a hand when Draco opens his mouth to question the statement. “Don’t ask. It’s for the best.” 

“Okay,” Draco replies, drawing out the word. 

Harry’s smile grows soft as he settles in his chair, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves so he can roll them up. His wrist sports a hair tie he uses to pull his hair into a bun near the nape of his neck, short strands of hair cascading over his cheeks. Draco wants to slam him on the table and kiss him, throwing all the public decorum drilled into him as a child out the window. 

Thank Merlin Draco has a strong constitution. For the sake of Harry and all the patrons of this dingy-looking Muggle Italian restaurant. Harry had suggested this restaurant in Leicester Square because it was a five-minute walk from the Ministry. 

“I’m starving,” Harry says, looking over the menu. “Did you order?” 

Draco shakes his head. “I was waiting for you. Which means I’m on the verge of hanger.”

Harry tilts his head and grins. “How generous.” He continues to study the menu. “What are you interested in? The portions here are huge.” 

“I’m not picky,” Draco says. 

“Yes you are. You are particular about everything.” Harry levels a stare. “But that’s okay. I like that about you.” He goes back to studying the menu. Draco can’t imagine it being that interesting. He can see that Harry’s tapping his finger on the red-and-white frayed tablecloth, tucking back the one stubborn loose strand of hair that keeps falling out and brushing over his cheek. 

When the server appears at the table, raising tired eyebrows, Harry nods. “Right. We’ll definitely do the garlic knots—a large order or Tracy will kill me for not bringing any back—and the large baked ziti. We’re sharing."

The server walks away without another word. 

“Wonderful service here,” Draco notes sardonically. “I can see why you keep coming back.”

“Believe me, when you have one of those garlic knots you’ll see why we deal with the subpar service.” 

“So did you miss me that much that I needed to come all the way to London to see you?” Draco asks. He pauses for a beat, raising a suggestively teasing eyebrow. “Or are you asking for a repeat of last night in public? Not that I’m against that, but we would need to—”

“No!” Harry says, eyes wide. “Nothing like that.” He pauses. “I mean, they know me too well here, and it’s not worth the risk of being banned. Tracy would have me killed. Saviour or not.” 

Draco uses a hand to cover his laugh, with a shake of his head. “You’re ridiculous. And you sound like you let your secretary have a bit too much rope.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry retorts. “You’re the one suggesting public sex.”

Draco shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I like living on the dangerous side.”

“I’m sure you do,” Harry murmurs, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Oh fuck yes, the garlic knots are coming.” He regards Draco with stony seriousness. “Prepare to have your life changed.”

**\--**

  
“Oh bloody hell I think I’ve gained two stone just from that lunch alone,” Draco moans, ambling alongside Harry. True to his word, the food was fantastic, and Draco understands his refusal of bathroom fucking in favour of the garlic knots. He’d most certainly would give up sex for them on a Monday. Draco considers if he would give it up for a Tuesday to Sunday too.

He shakes his head. Certainly not. 

“You didn’t even eat that much,” Harry says, amused, pulling out his mobile and a sticky parchment, neat handwriting etched over it, a takeaway bag filled with the famous garlic knots dangling from his hand. “Okay, now I have to find this coffee shop, or risk my life at Tracy’s hands.”

Harry had been distracted during lunch, fingers tapping on the table, his leg bobbing faster than his usual can’t-sit-still rhythm. Draco waited for Harry to say something, but he never did. 

But he only has so much patience. Draco grabs Harry’s wrist, waiting for eye contact. “What’s going on? This can’t be about finding coffee shops for a requested chai latte.”

Harry looks up from his phone, eyebrows pinched together. 

A small tick of anxiety rises in Draco’s chest, but he takes a few controlled breaths. His brain goes to the worst-case scenario—that Harry has to stop this whole...situation, for whatever reason. And whatever reason that is, it can’t be good to continue in this comfortable bubble they have created. So he’s going to end it in the middle of Muggle London, on the pavement right in front of his favourite poky little restaurant? On a fucking lunch break?

“Oh my god,” Draco says before he can stop himself. “Are you...are you going to, you know.” He waves his hands in front of him in the most inelegant display of a rising panic attack. “Are you ending this?”

Harry blinks a few times, and grabs for Draco’s arm. “What? No! I wanted to ask if you and Scorpius want to go on this holiday I have planned with the kids this summer. Why would I— Draco, are you okay?”

Draco shakes his head, taking his free hand and scrubbing it over his face. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, trying to quell the sudden uncomfortable flip of his stomach. He has the urge to vomit on his shoes. “I thought maybe you were. You know.”

Then there’s the coolness of Harry’s palms on his cheeks, brushing down onto his neck. “Look at me,” Harry commands. His eyes are worried and so, so green. “I will not do that to you.” He grins. “Too invested, and all that.” 

Draco’s laugh comes out a bit hysterical, as he leans forward to rest his head on Harry’s shoulder. “I almost lost it, because I thought you were—” He sighs. “I’m losing control all of my etiquette.” 

Harry’s arms wrap around his shoulders and he squeezes tight. “So is that a yes to the holiday? It’d be fun, yeah? All of us. Together.”

Draco pinches Harry’s side, earning a satisfying yelp. “I’m having a dramatic moment here, Potter; stop ruining it with your wholesome family nonsense.” 

He feels the chuckle vibrate Harry’s throat, and the release of his hold around Draco’s shoulders. “C’mon, I gotta find this cafe before Tracy sends a Patronus.”

“In Muggle London? What about the Statute—”

“She doesn’t care, and she knows she can get away with it because I won’t fire her.” 

Draco lifts an eyebrow. “Wow, she’s got you trained.” 

“Pretty much.”

Draco doesn’t complain when Harry reaches out to hold his hand.


	18. Chapter 18

**  
**-July 2020-**  
**

  
The holiday, much to Draco’s surprise and consternation, will apparently consist of walking up a mountain in Wales.

“We’ve done this every summer since Lily was a baby,” Harry explains as everyone gathers into the multi-floor rental cottage in a magical community near Mount Snowdon. It also appears he rented out the entire house. 

The cottage is more of a farmhouse, an entire three-storey furnished lodge filled with spacious rooms Draco is certain are magicked, a large stocked kitchen and high-vaulted ceilings with cedar beams. A set of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooks lush green rocky hills, and farther in the distance, there’s the white-capped palatial mountain. 

There’s a serenity to the house, Draco notes, walking up the steep staircase as the kids decide which rooms will be theirs. Harry follows behind him, a soft hand placed on his hip as he guides him into the master suite, shutting the door behind them. Before Draco has a moment to even register the room that he will stay in for the next week, Harry is pushing him up against the door, his mouth crushing against his with a low moan, fingers pulling Draco’s v-neck tee up towards his armpits, nails scratching along his sides. 

“Someone’s needy,” Draco gasps when he gets a chance, tilting his head up to allow Harry access to his neck. “What about—ah,” his inhale is sharp as Harry grinds his hips against Draco’s, “the kids?”

“They’re gonna be on their mobiles and iPads,” Harry mutters, tugging at Draco’s belt. “We’ve got at least ten minutes before they search for us.”

“Well, if you insist,” Draco says, eyes fluttering shut when Harry’s hand reaches into his jeans. 

“Oh, I do,” Harry whispers into his ear, nipping at the lobe. Draco’s knees shake. “I do.”

**\--**

  
The week passes in a series of comfortable events: Harry cooking breakfast every morning, the scent of bacon and eggs filling the whole house; ambient noise of kids bickering as they play their video games or discuss some video they found online; the silence of the evening when Harry and Draco settle down in the sitting room sofa in front of a small fire after everyone goes to bed, tangled in each other’s arms.

Draco is relaxed, refreshed, and alive in a way he hasn’t felt since before Astoria’s illness took an aggressive turn. His dreams have shifted into more pleasant tones and colours, and he wakes well rested and, dare he say it, happy. Some days, they choose to have a later lie-in, everyone being old enough to fend for themselves, and Draco marvels at Harry spread out next to him, starfished on his stomach, hair a dishevelled mess around the soft cotton bedclothes. 

In those cherished quiet moments, Draco studies the way warm pools of sunlight spill over Harry’s skin, drawing attention to the tattoos around his hip and back. It makes Draco want to trace every inch of them with his mouth, just to taste it. In his more treacherous emotional moments, he thinks he could get used to this—waking up every day to see the way Harry’s back rises and falls to the rhythm of his dreaming breath, the way he unconsciously reaches for Draco’s hand when he turns over, the smile that spreads over his lips when he’s waking up.

“Morning,” Harry whispers, voice groggy with sleep. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “No one burned anything down. That’s good.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re subsisting on crisps and YouTube at this point,” Draco muses. 

Harry hums, arching his back for a stretch, his arms reaching over his head. “Muggle tech is genius.” 

Draco perches his head in one hand, the other grazing soft fingertips over Harry’s chest, his stomach, his hip. A question burns inside of him, and he swallows before he asks. “You said you’ve been coming here since Lily was a baby?” 

Harry nods, eyes closed as he scratches his chin. 

“So why...didn’t Ginny come this time?” 

Harry’s eyes open, eyebrows arching up. “Oh. Mark took her to Ghana to meet his extended family.” He lifts his bare shoulder in a shrug. “You know, conflicting schedules, visitation, all that.” A pause lapses. “Why?”

Draco becomes very interested in the pillowcase, twirling it between two fingers. “I thought...Well, perhaps the reason you asked us was because they wouldn’t be—”

Harry slides on top of Draco, grabbing both of his wrists and pushing them down into the mattress. His eyes look fierce without his glasses, an eternal burning flame. 

“No,” Harry says with a shake of his head. “I _want_ you to be here. Even if Ginny had come along, you and Scorpius would still be here.” His hands squeeze Draco’s wrists, firm but not painful. “I—I want to be with you.” Harry’s eyes search over Draco’s face, and he whispers, “I want you to know that. You mean so— I—”

Draco lunges up towards Harry, capturing his mouth, the words swallowed between the muskiness of morning breath, and teeth and tongue. Harry releases his hold on Draco’s wrists, adjusts his legs to straddle Draco’s hips, hands cupping Draco’s face, soft locks tickling Draco’s temples and forehead. 

A bang on the door interrupts them. “Dad!” Albus says from the other side. “We’re starving! Can we go into town and get some food?”

Harry rests his head into the crook of Draco’s neck, chuckling. “Never a dull moment, I swear,” he whispers. Draco laughs. 

“Yes, Al,” he calls, “Give us a few minutes?”

“I’m setting a timer for ten on Alexa and if you’re not ready, we’re coming in.” A momentary pause before the voice adds, “And don’t be naked!”

“Well, you heard him. We got ten minutes to get down there and feed some starving teens,” Harry muses before rolling off the bed.

**\--**

  
On the last day of their holiday, they climb Mount Snowdon.

In truth, they take a train to the summit because, according to Harry, “I know for a fact that no one in this group wants to walk several miles up a mountain, even if the fresh air would be good for us.” The train starts in Llanbrais and rides on two viaducts over the Afon Hwich river, expanses of waterfall-fed water so wide it leaves Draco breathless. 

“It’s incredible, yeah?” Harry murmurs, looking over Draco’s shoulder to view the plunging waters below, and it’s in this moment that Draco realises this too is magic, omnipresent and surreal. That nature is a mind and a living being that has its own soul, it’s own purpose, and he feels a wave of emotion, alongside an onslaught of grief at the thought Astoria cannot share this with him, that he has to make this new exploration on his own. 

There are several stops before they reach the summit, a lot of complaints about ‘are we there yet’, and general grumpiness about the lack of mobile connection the higher they go upon the mountain. The thinning air and popping of ears lets the group know they are closer. Once the train makes its last stop, there are few people left to deboard, and Harry’s wild and excited expression is so infectious Draco’s stomach fills with anxious butterflies. 

Scorpius locks arms with Albus, who is telling Scorpius about previous years the family had ascended the summit, including one year where, “Dad really thought it was a good idea to walk the whole way and Mum practically pushed him off the cliff with her bare hands.” 

Harry murmurs, “Not my best idea, that.” 

The wind is brisk and chilly as they walk up steep stony steps to the summit, nothing but the world below them. It’s like he’s flying, that rushing adrenaline as the sharp air whips at his face, his cheeks growing chapped with cold. When they reach the peak, they see a large sundial in the middle, fading sunlight marking the time. 

And all around them, nothing but beauty. It leaves Draco speechless. 

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Harry asks, his voice heavy with admiration and delight. 

Draco nods, eyes falling shut as he takes in a deep gulp of crisp air. He reaches to Astoria’s spirit in the silence, wherever it is, in the hopes that she can hear his soul whispering to her _’d give anything to have you here right now_. The sting behind his eyes is too strong to ignore, blurring his vision. Harry laces his fingers with Draco’s, gives his palm a soft squeeze.

The sun sets in the distance.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
“Your birthday is coming up,” Ginny says, taking the beer Harry hands her as he settles on the other side of his sofa. “What are you going to do?”

Ginny returned from Ghana almost a week ago, looking tanned and freckled, eyes bright, and face relaxed, she invited Harry over for supper to catch up. Harry listens to her discuss meeting Mark’s extended family, learning about their magical history, and how they had emigrated into Britain before the country’s declaration of independence. Harry missed her while she was gone and is happy just to watch her hands move wildly as she talks about the village in which Mark’s family resides. 

And now she’s bringing up his birthday. When they were married, they always had a routine for celebration: the kids would make cards for Harry, and they would always go flying on his favourite pitch near Ron and Hermione’s house. Afterwards they would go back to their cottage and share a cake and drinks while the kids went off to do their own thing.

He grew accustomed to that tradition, looked forward to it every July. But this year it was different, and Harry didn’t know what to think of it. Draco hadn’t said anything about it. He was considering taking the day off for himself, and having a lie-in.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits. “Sit at home, watch the Great British Bakeoff, get takeaway curry?” 

Ginny levels a glance at him. “While I will agree that is a wonderful way to spend a typical evening home, we are talking about your 40th birthday. You need to do something fun.” 

Harry takes a long drink of his beer. Maybe he should go away for his 40th, find an island with white sand and blue waters so clear he can see his toes sinking into the earth. He imagines Draco there with him too, nose pink from the sun, hair bright as the beach against the warm sun. He could get away from everything for a while, forget how birthdays are always hard without distractions. 

He takes another drink of his beer instead. 

“Okay, that settles it,” Ginny says, setting her bottle on the table after a length of silence. “We’re taking you out. And before you can protest, it’s already settled. I don’t know when that boyfriend of yours was planning on telling you but I can’t play dumb anymore. Have him call me if he has a conniption.” 

Harry’s gawks. “Er. Come again?”

Ginny blinks at Harry as if he asked her a very complex potions recipe. “We’re taking you out. All of us. It was Draco’s idea. So...surprise, Harry!” 

Harry leans back in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. A pool of warmth spreads over his chest as he realises that he didn’t have to worry about it after all. He smiles as he takes another drink of his beer and says, “Draco will be so fucked off when he finds out you told me.”

Ginny shrugs. “I can take him. It’s not like I haven’t before.” 

Harry tilts his head back and laughs, lifting his bottle and says, “Touché.”

**\--**

  
Draco finds out that Ginny spilled about Harry’s birthday plans a few days later. Harry doesn’t hide his surprise that Draco isn’t as annoyed as Harry expected.

“I knew she’d tell you,” Draco says with a lazy hitched shoulder, setting a bowl of cassoulet in front of him. “She doesn’t know how to not tell you.”

Harry takes a bite, trying hard to hide his groan of pleasure. He ends up swallowing the food too quickly. “What does that mean?” 

Draco’s eyes shift to solemn. “You and Ginevra were together for most of your lives and were married for nearly twenty years. Trust is imperative.” 

Harry considers Draco’s words the following evening as they walk down the winding roads of Shoreditch, Draco leading the way with Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Mark grouped behind them. A light drizzle descends in the warm night air, and Harry is thankful that he decided on a black shirt. He pushes the cuffed sleeves further up on his elbows. 

“Are we there yet?” Ron whinges, carding a hand through his damp hair. “I’m feeling soggy in places that do not want to feel soggy.”

“Good grief, you complain just as much as our kids,” Draco mutters, adjusting his tight ultramarine t-shirt. Harry doesn’t know how he looks so fucking beautiful in the simplest of clothing. “We’re nearly there. And before we get in, we’ll make sure we slip into an alley to dry up, okay? Keep your wits about you.” 

“Easy for you to say,” Ron grouses. “Your trousers aren’t even wet.”

“That’s because I know about a thing called water repelling charms,” Draco says, tilting his head back to get a look at the rising wet cuffs of Ron’s jeans. He scrunches his nose. “And properly fitted clothing. Haven’t we been over this before?”

“Oi, the good ones were dirty!” Ron insists. “It’s not my fault you’re too busy shagging Harry to take me shopping!” 

“Alright children, if you don’t quiet down I’m turning this car around and going home,” Harry says. 

“Mate, you’re supposed to be on my side about this,” Ron says.

“It appears I am responsible for your sub-par wardrobe,” Harry counters, tucking his hands into his jeans with a grin. “All this shagging I’m providing.”

“And blow jobs,” Draco supplies. 

“Not to mention rimming,” Harry continues.

“And wanking. Lots and lots of wanking. Mutually, individually, publicly, sometimes simultaneously, and—”

Ron sticks his fingers in his ears. “I APPRECIATE THAT YOU HAVE A HEALTHY SEX LIFE BUT PLEASE LEAVE ME OUT OF IT”. 

Everyone’s laughter fills the street with the echoes of their voices. 

“Ron, you are not that sensitive,” Ginny says, looping her arm through his. “You’ve heard far more details about Harry’s sexcapades than that.” 

“Yeah, and I was usually six-ales deep,” Ron grouches. “It’s raining, I’m getting cold, and I fucking hate dancing. Tonight better be incredible.”

“Where there’s vodka, there’s a way,” Draco swears. He points ahead of himself to a winding corner. “One more street and we’re there. Think you can handle it, Weasley?” 

“Don’t challenge him, Draco,” Hermione says, an amused smile on her face. “He’ll end up doing something totally daft like run there and sprain his ankle.”

“That was not my fault!” Ron exclaims. “That damn cat showed up out of nowhere! What was I supposed to do?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Why am I getting roasted, by the way? It’s Harry’s bloody birthday, shouldn’t we be taking the piss out of him?”

“What makes you think this isn’t my birthday gift from Draco?” Harry asks, turning around and glancing at his best friend with a wide grin. 

“Are you serious?” Ron asks with a dramatic wave of his hand.

“Oh shut it, Weasley, we are finally here. Get your damp arse in this alley so I can fix you up proper and make you look presentable.” 

“Well since you asked so nicely,” Ron grumbles, earning an echo of sniggers from everyone. Draco turns and walks backwards, flashing Harry a wide smile.

**\--**

  
Zig A Zig Ah! is located in a large building that was renovated into commercial space. The queue stretches down the street, velvet rope partition corralling eager patrons into a single-file line. Draco and Ron disappear in the alley beside the building, shadowed in the dark as everyone else crowds under the awning, giving themselves a surreptitious drying spell. When Ron and Draco emerge, Ron’s jeans are altered to be snug against his long legs, and his t-shirt magically tailored into a dark blue shirt.

Ron emerges with a wide, smug grin on his face.

The music inside pulses so heavily, the bass tremors resonate up through the soles of his shoes. Draco manoeuvres his way through the crowd with swift familiarity, Harry following behind. The air reeks of a potent mixture of sweat and booze, as the group follows Draco’s lead through a mass of warm bodies near the dance floor. 

They stop in a far corner of the club where there’s a large, roped-off area filled with lush booths and tables, and a private bar with two bartenders. Draco speaks to the man standing in front of the ropes, and the bloke nods, unhooking the rope and allowing the group access.

“Nothing but VIP for HJP!” Ron exclaims, as they park in front of the bright backlit bar, a cascade of coloured lights spotlighting various bottles of spirits. Draco flags down a bartender, leaning back to give a simple headcount and flashing up six fingers as he orders something that Harry cannot hear over the music. 

“How do you know this place?” Harry yells over an impressive remix of “Murder on the Dancefloor”. He inclines his head to look for the DJ. 

“Blaise owns it,” Draco answers. “Used to come all the time ages ago with—” He stops and turns to the row of shots waiting for everyone in small clear looking plastic cups. 

Once everyone has a drink in their hand, Ginny raises her cup and proclaims, “To Harry’s 40th!” They clink their small plastic cups and knock back the shots. It’s something lemony and sweet, the smooth liquid a pleasant burn all the way to Harry’s stomach. 

“I’m gonna need another one of these as soon as possible if you’re planning to get me out there,” Ron says, nodding to the packed crowd below their balcony. Before he’s even finished his request, Draco has produced another round. “Ah, you are a blessing, mate,” Ron declares, lifting his drink and kicking it back. 

Ginny and Mark make a quick descent down the stairs and into the crowd, swirling colours of red, blue, and purple painting their skin and illuminating their smiles. Hermione is leaning against the counter of the bar, having ordered something to sip on, Ron resting a hand on her lower back as he whispers into her ear. She giggles around a slim straw, shaking her head before giving him a lingering kiss. 

“Come on,” Draco says with a wolfish grin, grabbing at Harry’s hand. “You’re only 40 once, and I plan to make the most of it with you.” 

A buzz trickles through Harry’s limbs and chest from a mixture of alcohol, music, and the warmth of Draco’s hand tugging Harry into the centre of the dance floor. Ginny and Mark are already dancing, arms wrapped around each other, faces close together, stealing chaste kisses. Ron and Hermione have joined, further away from the centre of the group, laughing and dancing comically together as they hold their drinks up to keep from being knocked over. 

Draco tugs Harry closer, and to keep his balance, Harry’s lands his hands on Draco’s hips. Draco slides a leg between Harry’s, tracing his lips over Harry’s chin all the way to his ear. “How well can you dance, Potter?” The low timber of his voice vibrates throughout Harry’s entire body.

Without answering, Harry jerks Draco closer, sinuously circling his hips in a perfect grind against Draco’s, whose hands tighten against Harry’s neck. Harry pulls back and raises a challenging eyebrow, resting his palms against Draco’s arse and tilts an approving smile as Draco’s lip catches between his teeth, his eyes fluttering. 

“Do you approve?” Harry asks after the music settles for a moment, the DJ transitioning to another song. Before Draco can answer, the music blares up again, a familiar tune that sends everyone in the club into a thrumming, manic roar. 

Draco tilts his head back to laugh, glancing around at their group to see if they also recognise the song, and as he locks eyes with Ginny, they both scream, “If you ain't dirty, you ain't here to partyyyyyy!” Ginny grabs at Draco’s hand gleefully. They take a few steps back from their partners, moving their hips to the staccato beat of the song, their fingertips trailing through their palms when they separate. 

Harry’s feet remain locked in place when Draco closes his eyes, arms twined over his head as he does a slow spread of his legs to make room for the wide circular motion of his hips, before crossing both of his arms over his torso brushing his palms up his chest, eyes fixated on Harry. 

“Holy shit,” Harry murmurs to himself, the bass of the club too loud and pulsing for anyone to even hear him, much less care. Other patrons are taking stock of Draco’s moves, leaving more than a few eyebrows raised in approval, and when Draco lifts one crooked finger indicating for Harry to come closer, he closes the space in two steps. 

Harry’s hands land on Draco’s hips, fingertips slipping under his shirt. His back is damp from the humidity of too many bodies smashed together, and it doesn’t matter, because then Draco is sliding a leg up Harry’s side, his arms looping around Harry’s neck as his back undulates with the music, like he’s a part of the very notes themselves, as though each beat is made for his body. 

And Harry has never been this hard in his fucking life. 

Harry’s hand hooks under Draco’s knee, hiking it up higher, allowing Draco to tilt backwards, the movements of his hips becoming filthier, and earning more than a few whoops from the surrounding crowd. Harry matches Draco’s movements, sliding his free hand over Draco’s hip to his lower back and dragging him as close as possible, so he can grind down on the thigh between him.

Draco taps Harry’s hand holding his leg and twirls, backing his arse into Harry’s crotch, one palm on Harry’s hip as he sways back and forth, the other grabbing a random fistful of Harry’s hair. Harry licks at the salty sweat pooling at the bottom of Draco’s neck, licking a trail to his chin when Draco tilts his head to allow Harry further access to the pulsing skin under his mouth. 

“Fuck, I want you,” Harry rumbles in Draco’s ear before nibbling at the lobe, fingertips skimming over the exposed patch of skin where Draco’s t-shirt is bunched from sweat and dancing. Draco nods against his neck and grabs for his wrist, guiding them away from the throng of dancing bodies. 

Draco thrusts Harry into the private toilet in the VIP area, a single unisex room equipped with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and an oversized sofa in an alcove that appears custom made for it. The room’s decor is as lush and expensive as the VIP section that Draco secured, and before Harry can take in the whole scenery, Draco pushes him onto the sofa and crawls into his lap, hands brushing back loose, sweat-soaked bits of hair that have escaped Harry’s ponytail. 

Harry sets his palms on Draco’s thighs, lifting his hips for friction. He’s been hard like a bloody teenager since the moment they started practically dry fucking on the dance floor, and now, through the buzzed haze of alcohol and endorphins fused with the musky salt scent emanating from Draco, Harry wants skin on his hands, and he wants it _now_.

“You need to stop doing that or I’m going to embarrass myself in about two minutes,” Draco rasps, his voice raw and ragged, hands clenching tight onto Harry’s shoulders. Their breathing is rapid and shallow, and Harry wants to bottle up this moment with Draco sitting above him, his hair damp against his forehead, cheeks flushed from dancing, breath alcohol sweet, and keep it forever. He doesn’t want any of this to come to an end, doesn’t want to give it up. 

Draco cups Harry’s face, his mouth tipping up into a flirtatious grin. “Tell me what you want,” he whispers, leaning over to swipe his tongue across Harry’s bottom lip. 

Harry crushes their mouths together, needing to sample that heady taste of Draco’s mouth, wanting the click of teeth, a fumbling of hands, and the scrape of fingertips over his scalp. The slick wetness of tongue and the vibration of a moan almost sends Harry over the edge, so he pulls back, panting, and gasps, “I want to watch you.” He swallows hard, and continues, breathless, “I want you to get yourself off and I want to watch you do it.” 

Draco’s gaze turns heated and carnal, and the all-encompassing sensation of desire has Harry whirling. Draco is beautiful and Harry is so fucking in love, he is certain everything inside of him is turned upside down. 

“You’re a kinky bastard, you know that?” Draco murmurs, brushing the back of his hand down Harry’s chest, eyes focused on their trail. They flick back up, boring right into Harry. “You want to watch me, hm?” Harry’s eyes close tight when Draco’s lips brush against his ear, the tickle of his whisper. “You want to see me come undone in front of you? Right here?” 

“Fuck,” Harry moans, his head slamming on the back of the sofa. He takes three deep breaths to calm the hammering of his heartbeat, his grip on Draco’s hips bruising. Then he grinds out, “I want you to get off looking at yourself. Can you do that?” 

Draco’s chuckle comes out deep and gravelly. He untangles himself from Harry’s lap and says, “You underestimate what I can do.”

Draco turns and walks in front of the full-length mirror, gaze directed only to himself, brushing back the loose fringe hanging in front of his eyes. He breathes a deep inhale and, with a shake of his head, unbuttons his trousers. Harry’s breathing shallows as he watches Draco pulls his cock out of his trousers, fisting his erection, his free hand resting on the mirror as he hunches over and makes a slow pull of his cock as he wanks.

Draco never directs so much as a glance at Harry the entire time, focusing his stare on himself. Harry studies the way Draco’s palm curls into a fist, how Draco rests his forehead against his reflection when his back arches, and the way he murmurs, “Oh fuck, God, yes, I can feel you watching me.” It’s never directed to Harry, just to himself, a whispered litany of vows. 

Harry can’t ignore the tightness in his jeans, the way his dick strains to be freed and touched. He pulls it out, joining Draco, matching his pace, watching the way Draco’s stomach contracts, the way his arm muscles turn rigid with the speed of his hand. Harry gasps a shocked moan as his orgasm spills, a pool of warm stickiness spilling out of him. He does everything he can to capture it in his palm, but it’s all forgotten when the shuddering moan of Draco’s climax echoes through the small room, spurting into his own hand, spunk splattering its way onto the mirror in front of him, his forehead resting on his arm. 

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the ragged gasps between them. 

Draco pushes himself off the mirror and lifts his head to the ceiling to regain his composure and tucking himself inside his jeans before walking over to the sink and washing his hands. He splashes water onto his face, fingers gripping the porcelain of the sink. Harry does a quick cleaning spell on himself and the mirror before pulling his jeans up and straightening his t-shirt. He walks over to Draco and wraps his arms around his waist, placing a gentle kiss to his neck. 

“That was unbelievable,” Harry murmurs, his voice husky with a post-orgasmic rumble. He’s light-headed and relaxed, his hand rubbing absent small circles over Draco’s stomach.

Draco hums, leaning back into Harry’s embrace. His cheeks are pink, and his hair is still a mess, but he looks loose limbed and relaxed. “Happy birthday to you, then.” He pats Harry’s hand a couple of times and exhales a sad sigh. “We should head back out. Everyone’s going to wonder if we buggered off.”

“Let them wonder,” Harry huffs sleepily, nose brushing against the dampness of Draco’s hair. “We should just hide in here forever.”

“There, there,” Draco croons. “There’s more in store later. That is, if you have enough energy.” 

Harry rears back and gives a deadpan look. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Malfoy.” 

Draco’s grin is sly. “That’s my boy.”

**\--**

  
There are drinks waiting for them when Harry and Draco saunter back to the VIP area. Everyone spreads around the red velour booths, empty cups in front of them, dazed and happy smiles on their faces.

“Took you lot long enough,” Ron remarks, and nods towards the loo. “Is it safe to go in there?”

“You’re just going to have to find out for yourself,” Draco drawls, settling down in front of his drink and taking a ginger sip. He nods in approval. “Drink up, there’s more dancing to be done.”

“And more shagging I’m sure,” Ginny says, earning the laughs of everyone around him. She tilts into a leisured sprawl, Mark’s arms wrapping around her waist. 

“It’ll take much longer than one song,” Harry says before gulping down his drink and getting up from his seat. “Some things don’t bounce back as quickly as they used to.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Draco drawls, scooting out of the booth and following Harry back onto the crowded dance floor, everyone following behind. 

The night blurs together, between dancing of limbs, alcohol, and a constant playlist of music that brings a wave of nostalgia of his early 20s, trying to escape the nightmares of a war with Ginny in his arms. Only this time he doesn’t have to worry about those horrors, and it’s not Ginny, but Draco. 

Draco, who’s looking at Harry as if he’s the only person in the entire fucking three-storey building that matters, with his sharp smile, and burning stare that flickers something alive inside of Harry. The way Draco’s hands glide on Harry’s arms, on his chest, on his hips, the way his legs slot in between Harry’s with utter perfection. He can’t ignore the soaring swoop inside of his chest, the bubbling of effervescent pleasure inside his stomach. 

In the middle of a song that Harry isn’t even listening to, he stops Draco. Draco’s hands rest on Harry’s shoulder, curve up to his neck, and he tilts his head in concern. Then Harry cups Draco’s face, and leans in for a lingering kiss. It’s not aggressive, or demanding, but slow and burning, and passionate, their lips moving languidly, before opening their mouths. It’s a rhythm of its own music, and Harry realises that this moment, the content, complete safety of love he’s revelling in right now, is what he’s been looking for since he and Ginny separated.

**\--**

  
“Oi, I’m starving,” Ron announces as the group tumbles out of the club, walking up the road. “I could eat the arse off a hippogriff right now.”

“We can have that arranged, if you’d like,” Draco drawls, brushing a hand through his damp hair, nose wrinkling in disgust. His eyes focus too long on his hand before swaying a little into Harry. “Well, wherever we go, I prefer it be Muggle and dark. I’m far too pissed to risk magic at this moment.” 

A gust of wind bursts sharp and cold, Harry’s hair a flying mess over his face. He closes his eyes, allowing his skin to cool. He’s beyond a little buzzed, in that post-drunk come down, his body loose-limbed and happy, the chuckles and bickering of his friends a wonderful background to his muddled brain. 

“Well it’s Harry’s birthday, maybe he should choose,” Hermione says. Harry doesn’t know how she’s managed it but she still looks as incredible as she did when she walked into the club several hours before. Her skin is glowing, and her dress remains without a single wrinkle. 

“I want a kebab,” Ron says. “Kebabs are the best drunk food ever. I’m sure there’s like, studies done on this. Academic articles in all those databases Draco and Hermione wax poetic over. Harry, mate, can we _please_ get kebabs?”

“Oh sweet merciful Merlin, Harry, please say yes and shut this man up,” Draco mutters, gripping Harry’s arm as he sways again. “Wow, I should not have had that last shot. What the hell was in that shot, Ginny?” Draco points an accusing finger to Hermione. “And how is it Hermione isn’t remotely tipsy? Did I miss something?”

“They were called Red Headed Sluts and since I was ordering, it seemed appropriate,” Ginny says far too loudly, earning a mixture of odd looks and laughs from other late-night patrons. 

“I wonder if they have Blond Headed Sluts,” Draco asks, his voice slurred. “It’d certainly be an ode to my twenties.”

“I am not even going to grace this conversation with questions. Harry, can we please decide on food?” Mark asks, “I need to sit, and this lot needs carbs.”

“Kebabs,” Harry decides. “We can get kebabs.”

“There’s one not too far from here,” Hermione says, looking at her mobile. She weaves her way to the front of the group. “I’ll lead the way.”

“I cannot believe she’s not drunk,” Draco says in disbelief. “She drank as much as us, right?” 

Harry laughs, his arm wrapping around Draco’s waist. “Just let the woman lead the way, yeah?”

“That’s right!” Ron exclaims, raising his fists above his head. “Kebabs are happening!” 

“Maybe they’ll have hippogriff on special,” Draco snarks, causing everyone to whoop in laughter.


	19. Chapter 19

**  
**-August 2020-**  
**

  
  
Their nights together blur in a mixture of one another’s beds depending on where they are. Draco always states that his bed is more comfortable, and Harry argues that his bedroom is cooler for the summer. It’s never forced or imbalanced, just a natural decision based on where they prefer. Draco also discovers that when he wakes, Harry is always touching him, a stray ankle hooking over Draco’s, a palm pressed against Draco’s back, or a hand reaching out to wrap around his wrist.

He never has nightmares. Until one night he does. 

Draco wakes in a cold sweat. It takes a long time to get his bearings, to recognise the soft yellow light in the corner from the street lamp outside and the echo of traffic in the middle of the night. His breaths are coming out in sharp gasps, his chest hurts, and when Draco rubs his face, there are tears on his cheeks. 

He closes his eyes, trying to will away the dream, but he can’t. A part of him doesn’t even want to. 

Only dreaming of Astoria wakes him like this. After the war it was Voldemort, visiting his father in Azkaban, receiving the Dark Mark. After all that time, those demons gave way to the biggest fear that Draco ever endured—losing Astoria. Losing her smile, losing her laugh, losing her teasing grin. The way she would read a book with her legs curled under her, the way her eyelashes swept her cheeks when she slept.

Some dreams are intimate, subconscious reenactments of the way she came undone from Draco’s hands and mouth, how she would grab onto his hair when she was close to orgasm, how afterwards she would always tell him he was perfect. 

He wishes it didn’t have to come like this, in the middle of the night, without warning. That it didn’t have to come when he has a man lying next to him asleep, breathing and alive. 

Alive. Draco’s hands cover his mouth, and he tries to breathe through the tightness in his throat, the stinging in his eyes, the shaking of his shoulders. He bites down on his lip with a sharp inhale. He can’t stop the shaking. 

“Draco?” Harry’s voice is sleep rough, but concerned. When he tries to touch his arm, Draco jerks away and shakes his head. 

“Don’t,” he says, voice muffled by his hands. If Harry touches him, he may fall apart right there. The sheets shift, the warmth of Harry’s body edging closer. 

“Can you tell me?” Harry asks. “Tell me what happened?

Draco clenches his eyes shut, wraps his arms around his waist. “It’s always the same,” he whispers. “I dream of her and then I wake up and she’s gone.” 

The silence strings for so long and so heavy that Draco forces himself to turn to Harry. His face is hidden in the shadows, the street light casting meagre light into the room, but Draco knows there’s concern and sadness in his expression. Draco’s eyes continue to sting and he blinks down hard to force away the threat of tears. He does not want to cry. He’s tired that tears are all he has left for Astoria. 

Harry moves closer, their legs brushing against each other. He tentatively reaches for Draco’s arm, and Draco allows the embrace, lets Harry’s other hand rest on his lower back, his palm moving in small circles. Then Draco crumbles into Harry’s arms, encompassed in the safe space between them. They lie down again, Harry never breaking contact, his fingertips moving up and down Draco’s arm, an anchor of the present. 

“Please. Don’t let go,” Draco whispers into the darkness of the room. 

“I won’t,” Harry whispers back. “I won’t let you go.”

**\--**

  
The last owl Astoria ever wrote for Draco and Scorpius arrives on a warm, sunny mundane afternoon.

Scorpius is sprawled on the sofa watching the telly, half paying attention to it and half paying attention to the comic book he’s reading. Draco is sitting in his favourite chair, trying to focus on his book and the words in front of him, but he keeps losing focus.

He keeps thinking about Harry. Harry’s hair, his hands, the way his arms go taut when Draco’s under him. How his eyes flicker up to Draco in a heated stare when he sends a wet trail of kisses down his stomach as Draco spreads his thighs. It’s then that his mind wanders to the way Harry’s eyes flutter shut when Draco straddles him, the way his palms squeeze onto his hips, how his hair is always a mess and how Draco thinks it’s perfect. 

The tapping on the window pulls Draco out of his daydream. Scorpius untangles himself from the sofa, his socked feet sliding against the hardwood floor. “It may be from Albus,” Scorpius explains, as if Draco wasn’t aware of his eyes trailing to the window every five minutes. Albus is supposed to send a package equipped with a new comic book series he’d bought for Scorpius.

But when he reaches the window and finds that it’s not the Potter’s usual owl, Scorpius pauses before taking the familiar cream-coloured envelope that Draco has grown so accustomed to receiving over the last year. 

Draco walks to Scorpius, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and says, “We should give him two treats, yeah?” 

Scorpius nods, disappearing into the kitchen and coming back with a handful of treats. The happy owl takes them before flying off into the distance. The envelope burns in Draco’s hand. 

“We should sit down,” Scorpius suggests, making his way to the sofa. Draco nods and follows, sitting next to Scorpius, peering down at Astoria’s beautiful script, addressed to Draco and Scorpius. They don’t speak, and the time stretches by for an eternity before Scorpius’s hand rests on Draco’s arm, pulling Draco out of the fog of emotion.

“It’s okay, Dad,” he reassures. “It’s for both of us.”

Draco nods, opening the envelope with care, as if to preserve everything she has ever touched. Lavender buds sprinkle out of the envelope and onto the floor, and with shaking hands Draco opens the parchment to reveal a flow of words with the scripted penmanship Draco has grown so accustomed to seeing. It’s like she’s still here with them, living through each word and page, a narration of her voice on screen, and Draco can live if he still has this. He has always believed he could go through life as long as he has some kind of lifeline to Astoria.

> _  
My darlings,_
> 
> _How can I ever explain everything that you have done for me? How you have fulfilled my life and given me so many treasures and memories and an abundance of love that has me brimming with gratitude over and over again. How could I possibly explain this in words? _
> 
> _I can’t. I don’t even know if I want to try._
> 
> _This is difficult to confess to you, and I am sorry. I am so sorry this has to happen, but I can feel it coming, the tug of the illness pulling me under, and I know soon I will not have the strength to write to you. The weakness in my hands grows stronger every day and I cannot subject you both to that. So instead I will write my last letter and say what I need to say._
> 
> _I love you. Beyond the skies, the moon, the stars, into the infinite abyss that lies beyond. If there is a place called heaven that I have read about countless times, my love stretches into the vastness of its existence for you both. You have provided me with boundless happiness, and without either of you my life would be dreamless, without eternal sunshine, and most of all, I would be bereft of the astounding effects of unconditional love you have gifted me. _
> 
> _If you were to ask me what my last wish is, it is this: let yourself be happy. Never let go of happiness, do not forget its existence, and always remember that love is the breath of life. I hope that both of you can find that love over and over again._
> 
> _There are not enough words to express my love for you. So instead I shall gift you one instead: sonder. It’s the profound realisation that everyone, including strangers in the street, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite anyone else’s awareness of it. Revel in this emotion, my loves; remember that you are not alone in any of this._
> 
> _Accept help. Express your feelings. And most of all, please, please never say no to love. _
> 
> _Yours forever,_
> 
> _Astoria _  


  
The parchment shivers, the words blurring in his hands. It isn’t until Scorpius reaches over, clasping a steady hand over Draco’s that he realises he’s the reason for the shaking. He squeezes his eyes shut, pulling his lips into his mouth to quell the howl that wants to burst out. It’s like a geyser needing to release the pressure, but he can’t, and it takes all the energy from the surrounding earth.

“Dad?” Scorpius whispers, his palms tightening on Draco’s arm. His voice sounds shattered and lost, searching for direction, and Draco doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know where he’s going, ambling through this sea of grief, this vast ocean of unknown. The air is thinner in the room, and it’s warm, so warm, despite the cool breeze coming off the beach. 

Scorpius’s arms wrap around Draco, clinging tight, and the parchment slips from his hands, caresses over his fingertips as it hits the floor, and the pain, that unmistakable throb wraps around every fibre of his body. This is what it is to break. This is free falling into the abyss of sadness, and Draco is not getting better, he hasn’t coped with any of this like he imagined. He has always been hanging on by a thread, the thread that tied him to Astoria, that wonderful deliverance from misery and torment. 

He doesn’t even register he’s crying until Scorpius squeezes him harder; he hears the soft sobs choking out of Scorpius’s throat, and then Draco breaks, shatters, destroyed and scattered like Astoria’s ashes over a vast cliff to the unending sea. 

“I’m so sorry,” Draco whispers. He doesn’t know how he can help his own son if he cannot find light within all this darkness, as he flounders around in this pain with no resolution. How will he live another day, knowing that his connection to Astoria has ceased? How will he face the morning sun, the setting evening sky, the stars in the night sky without that hope? 

Draco pulls Scorpius closer, rubs a hand down his back until they relax against each other. The internal shiver dissipates to an electrified thrum, present but controlled. Scorpius pulls back and sighs, rubbing the back of his hand over his cheeks. He reaches down and picks up Astoria’s letter, glances over the words before blinking and turning to Draco.

“Do you think this will ever get better?” he whispers. 

“I don’t know,” Draco answers, opting for honesty. 

“I hope it does,” Scorpius says. His voice is hoarse, as though he’s been screaming over the roar of the tide, demanding life answers. “I really hope it does.”

Draco nods. His head is swimming like he’s planted his feet on steady earth after years at sea. _Land sickness_, the fisherman call it. Grief is just an emotional version of that. He scrubs a hand over his face, combing his fingers through his hair. When he turns to look at Scorpius, he can see his son’s eyes are red rimmed and tired. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco says again. He’s at a loss for words, unsure of what he can say. 

Scorpius nods, inhaling a deep breath. “I’m going upstairs. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Draco responds. “If you need anything—” 

“You too,” Scorpius says. As he ascends the stairs, he stops and turns, his profile exposed. “I love you, Dad.”

Before Draco can muster a response, he hears a door snick closed. He buries his face in his hands, ignoring how they catch the evidence of his grief.

**\--**

  
The ascent up the stairs is like hiking up Mount Olympus, on his resigned journey to fulfill his destiny, to fight the gods. It weighs heavy on his legs and arms, and each step removes another bit of already depleted emotional reserves.

He knocks on Scorpius’s door, but there’s no answer. Draco furrows his brow and knocks a little louder, calling out his name. When he’s met with silence, he puts a careful hand on the doorknob and opens the door and discovers it to be empty. He walks down the hall to the master bedroom and finds it empty too, then turns around the hall and around the corner. The spare room door is closed. Draco’s heart leaps into his throat, the tightness painful and unbearable. He’s not prepared for any of this. 

Scorpius is lying on the bed on his side, back facing the door, on top of the sage-green duvet. The only thing disrupted in the whole room is the single pillow he’s laid his head on. His breathing is even and calm with sleep, his mobile lying right next to his face. 

The prickle of tears stings Draco’s eyes again. 

The only place a boy wants to be when he realises he will never have another correspondence with his mother is the last place he saw her before she died. 

Draco looks over at Scorpius sleeping, his hand tucked under his cheek, just like he’s slept since he was a toddler. He looks much younger this way, his mouth open a little, and hair mussed against the pillow. Draco sits on the bed with careful ease. Scorpius inhales a sharp breath, and he stretches his body with a groan before turning over. 

“Hm, fell asleep,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Everything okay?”

“I was coming to check on you,” Draco says. He traces his finger over the stitching of the duvet. “I thought you’d be in your room.”

Scorpius scoots himself up on the bed, resting his back against the headboard. He combs his fingers through his messy hair, and Draco can see a sleep line from the pillow creasing his cheek. He rubs his heels on the back of his eyes, trying to wake up. 

“Sometimes I come in here when I miss her,” Scorpius says, grabbing for a pillow and hugging it to his chest like a shield. 

Draco opens his mouth to speak, but then a harsh jangling ringtone interrupts the conversation, an odd tinny voice scats before being interrupted by a techno beat that takes Draco back to his days of clubbing and bad alcohol and embarrassing decisions. 

He creases his nose in distaste. “That noise is horrific, Scorpius.”

Scorpius reaches for his phone and says, “It means Albus is texting me,” as though that excuses the abominable noise. Scorpius chews on his bottom lip, eyes moving as he reads something on his phone and sets it down. “He’s inviting me over to help create new D&D characters for our next game night. Is it okay if I go?”

Draco doesn’t know if he can handle seeing Harry at that moment. “Is he staying with Har—”

Scorpius shakes his head. “No. He’s at Grimmauld Place.” 

Draco nods. “Sure, yeah. Okay.” Before Scoprius has a moment to second-guess his desire to see Albus, Draco places a reassuring hand on his knee. “Scorpius, please hang out with your best friend and have fun. I believe it will be a good distraction for you.” 

“Okay,” Scorpius says, uncertainty clear in his grey eyes. He scoots off the bed, making his way out of the bedroom and stops, but doesn’t turn to look at Draco. “You should call him. It’d be nice for you to have someone to hang out with, too.” 

Draco fists the duvet until his hand hurts. 

Later, after Scorpius slings the knapsack over his shoulder, pinching Floo powder in his hand, yelling into the fireplace for Number 12, after he turns and waves and gives a weary smile before disappearing into the flames, Draco goes to the shore to watch the sunset. He pulls out his mobile, searching for Harry’s number, his thumb hovering over the call button.

He puts the phone back in his pocket and watches the sunset alone.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
It takes one day of silence from Draco for Harry to get worried. It takes two days for him to suspect that Draco is avoiding him when owls return unanswered. It takes three days to confirm his suspicions when he attempts to Floo and finds that Draco’s blocked his access.

It doesn’t take a fourth day. But what he doesn’t know, and burns to find out, is _why_.

Despite all of Harry’s efforts, he keeps coming up short on answers. He knows that Scorpius still comes to visit Albus, has even spent time at Harry’s flat when Albus Flooed over one afternoon to retrieve some forgotten items from his bedroom. They ended up staying through dinner, talking about the books they were reading and their new D&D characters, and video games they were considering purchasing if Ginny would let them. Harry tried to pay attention as Albus regaled him with the plot summary of a particular manga series they were both invested in, but all he could see in the furrow of Scorpius’s eyebrow, the tilt of his grin, was Draco, and he didn’t understand what had happened, how without warning everything was just...silence. 

Harry can’t take it anymore. 

He corners Hermione after she invites him to dinner one night, when she is alone and the kids are helping Ron at the shop, preparing for the new school year. 

“Harry,” Hermione says after exhaling a long sigh, and resting her fork down on her plate. “I honestly don’t know why he hasn’t contacted you.”

“Have you spoken to him?” Harry asks, pushing the rice around on his plate. His appetite has been shit the last few days, a swirling hurricane of panic brewing in the pit of his gut where hunger should be. 

“Harry.”

“Please,” Harry pleads. “I just want to know if you have spoken to him.” 

Hermione leans back in her chair, crossing her arms, her shoulders slouching. “Yes. But that’s all I will say.”

“What you’re saying is that you know something,” Harry counters, narrowing his eyes and dropping the fork onto his plate. The clatter of metal on porcelain is deafening. 

“I am not getting in the middle of this. You’re putting me in a very compromised position by demanding answers,” Hermione says in irritable disbelief. “Answers that I don’t even have.” Her voice grows quiet. “I wish I knew.” 

Harry wonders if this is what it’s like when people talk about the pain of a broken heart. It wasn’t even two weeks ago he had been dancing with Draco in a club for his birthday, getting sloppy drunk, and having bathroom sex like two randy twenty-year-olds. Even that evening when they went back to Harry’s flat, Draco bound Harry’s wrists to the headboard and rimmed him with such patient precision that Harry found himself boneless and slipping into a mental calm he had never experienced before in sex. When Draco penetrated him with two slicked fingers, wanking with one hand and finger fucking Harry with the other, he was too boneless to move, caught up in the overwhelming headiness of Draco’s touch.

It was the best sex Harry’d had in years. He thought about that fucking orgasm for days afterwards; it was branded in the forefront of his mind, slipping into his consciousness during the least appropriate moments: during meetings at work, when he sat in a coffee shop for lunch, when he went jogging in the evenings in an attempt to stave off the memory. Nothing he did worked to simmer the heat of it, and he settled his mind with a text telling Draco about it. 

_You’re too easy to please. But I have more ideas where that came from._

Now, Harry stares at those words encased in that blue bubble. It’s the last link he has from Draco, and Harry wishes there was more between the lines. Something, a hint of anything, to help him work it out. If he did something wrong, he wants to make it right, but Draco doesn’t seem to want any of that, and after almost a year of having him around, he’s vanished. 

“You will be late to your meeting if you don’t get a move on,” Tracy drawls, leaning against the doorframe of Harry’s office. When Harry glances up from his phone, she pauses and adds, “I’ll tell them you can’t make it. Double booked.”

Later, when she shows up with a mug of tea, she sits down on the chair in front of his desk, crossing her legs. They sit in silence for a long stretch. Tracy’s patience is beyond anything Harry has ever seen. She’d give Hermione a run for her money. 

Harry caves. “Are you babysitting me?”

Tracy levels him a stare. “How long have I been working with you?”

“About four years.”

“Right,” Tracy says with a nod. 

Harry blinks, bemused. “Erm.” 

“I have been babysitting you far longer than the last ten minutes,” Tracy explains, eyebrows lifting to her hairline. “Are you going to tell me what happened or am I going to keep making up excuses for you to continue not doing your job?”

Taking off his glasses, Harry rubs his eyes until he sees stars. “Something happened and I don’t know what I did to cause it and it’s driving me barmy.”

Tracy hums. “That’s about as vague as vague can get. What you’re trying to tell-but-not-tell me is that the situation with that bloke you were seeing went tits up and you’re wondering what you did.” 

“Jesus,” Harry says in awe. “How the fuck did you—”

“Harry, did it ever occur to you you’re pants at hiding your emotions?” 

Harry scoffs and tilts his head to the ceiling. “I have been told that a few times in my life, yeah.”

“You know, when I was growing up, I was super close to my nan,” Tracy says, setting her mug on the desk. “I practically lived with her. She was the one person in my life who truly understood me, and really got me, yeah?” Tracy stops, her eyes focused on the fingertip that’s grazing over the wooden arm of her chair. “When I got older, our relationship kind of fell apart.”

Harry just stares. In the four years that Tracy has worked with Harry, they have talked a lot about their personal lives in a superficial sense—though Tracy has a knack for figuring out the details of Harry’s, which drives him round the twist—but she’s never explained anything about her childhood.

“I was mad and resented her,” Tracy continues. “I thought she was pushing me away, punishing me for something I didn’t know I’d done wrong. Later I found out she was ill. Terminal. And she didn’t want to worry me.” Tracy’s eyes lift to stare at Harry. “And all I would’ve had to do was ask her. So since then, I vowed to never be afraid to ask someone I love what the fuck is going on.”

Harry peers down at the phone on his desk. It’s had little activity since Draco stopped messaging him, except for the few from the kids and Ginny. He’d grown accustomed to it all, waking up to thoughts from Draco, going to sleep with excitement, knowing he’d hear from Draco again. He misses it. He misses it so much.

“So ask what you want to know,” Tracy says, rising from the chair and grabbing her mug. “You’re Harry fucking Potter. You defeated Voldemort. You will not let some cockwomble turn you into a delicate flower. We both know you’re far from that.”  
****

***.*.*.***

  
Draco skims through the 200 channels on his telly for the second time before turning it off and tossing the remote to his side. He is brutally reminded of Harry when he looks through his DVR recordings and finds back episodes of QI, that familiar sorrow rushing over him, his chest knotting up. Harry loves this show, and they used to watch it when they spent evenings together’ they’d both record it to ensure it was available whichever home they ended up staying at.

There are reminders of Harry throughout the house. A t-shirt he left behind after slipping on the wood floor and spilling wine all over it, opting to go shirtless instead of spelling it clean; a mug he brought over, claiming was one of his favourites and he enjoyed waking in the morning to it; the empty space next to Draco when he wakes up to face the morning, the pillow smelling of Harry. 

It’s an ache deep inside of him, but it’s nothing compared to the all-consuming anguish at the realisation that he will never have any new memories with Astoria ever again. During that first year, her letters gave Draco purpose, strength to continue, knowing that, in some small way, she was still with him. And now that it’s vanished, just like she had, he has nothing left but the pain and sorrow, all over again. 

He should go to bed. Scorpius is with Albus at Ginny’s again, opting to spend as much free time as he can with his best friend. When Draco asked why they never bothered coming over to his home, Scorpius gave a sheepish rub of his neck and said, “They have an Xbox and a Playstation 4.” He paused and confessed, “And I like the noise.”

So Draco is alone with nothing but his thoughts and the ever present ache of loneliness. Maybe this is how it was always meant to be. Maybe, when the fates had snatched one of the most important people in his life, it was reparation for all the wrong choices he had made before he started making the right ones. 

He’s about halfway up the stairs when a bang on the front door jolts him out of his thoughts, making him stumble backwards down the stairs. He looks at his watch and furrows his brow. It’s the middle of the night, who could be—

Then the banging increases, and Draco dashes down the steps and jogs to the front door. “Okay, okay, keep your wits about you, Jesus,” he says as he opens the door. “Ever heard of—” 

And there, standing right in front of him, is Harry, with his hair wet from the heavy rain outside, his shirt so soaked it’s like another layer of skin. Harry’s mouth is set into a thin line, his eyes ablaze with fury. Draco’s insides shiver as if he’s been dipped in ice-cold water. His knees shake unsteady under his weight, and he grips the front doorknob hard.

“Yes?” Draco’s impressed at how steady his voice sounds. 

Harry narrows his eyes. “Let me in. Now.” 

The chill in Draco’s bones shifts to angered heat. “Excuse me? You can’t just show up to my house and demand—”

“Draco, let me in or so help me God I will rip this house apart brick by brick,” Harry growls, his face dark and furious. 

Draco swallows, then inhales a shaky breath before opening the door wider to allow Harry inside. He slams the door closed, the walls rattling. Harry stalks into the living room, tracking mud and water and stands, his back turned. His shoulders are rising and falling in quick succession from laboured breathing, hands clenched into fists on his side. 

“You are causing a mess on my floor,” Draco states, nodding to the puddle around Harry’s feet.

Harry whirls around and stares at Draco as if he’s gone round the twist. “Are you serious? You’ve been avoiding me for two bloody weeks and the first thing you want to comment about is the cleanliness of your fucking floor?” Harry scoffs a bewildered laugh. “You really are something else.” 

Draco crosses his arms. The tightening in his chest curls, and he takes a steady breath to ignore it. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Harry asks, whipping his head around as though the answer lies in Draco’s living room. “What do I want? I want to know why my boyfriend stopped returning my calls, my texts, my owls, and blocked me from entering his bloody home!” 

Draco cringes at the word ‘boyfriend’ and the roiling in his stomach intensifies. He may vomit. “I’m not your boyfriend,” he says quietly. His eyes flicker away when he sees the angered crease between Harry’s eyebrows fade, a flash of hurt appearing in its wake. “I never— We never—” Draco shakes his head. 

“What?” Harry whispers in disbelief. 

Draco squeezes his eyes shut, his arms tightening around his middle. “I said I’m not your—”

“I heard what you said!” Harry roars, causing Draco to wince. “What do you think we were doing? Fucking about? Is that what you _think_ of me?”

There’s a spikiness blooming in Draco’s throat, and his breathing turns as erratic as Harry’s hair. It’s hanging down, a wet mess. A small bit of it is plastered on his right temple, a single stubborn tendril attached to the frame of his glasses. Draco licks his dry lips and tries to summon his voice. 

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Draco says, aiming for honesty, “but I believe it was a mistake.” 

Harry steps closer and Draco moves backwards in time with Harry’s movements. “You’re lying,” Harry says, his voice dangerous and low. “I can tell you’re lying to me. Don’t fucking lie to me.” 

Draco shakes his head. “I’m not lying to you.” 

“You mean to tell me all those times we—” Harry stops, rubbing a hand over his mouth. His gaze shifts to the window, lips pursed in concentration. When he turns back, his eyes look dead, his expression blank. “So if we weren’t dating, what were you doing, then? I deserve an explanation.” 

“I…” Draco begins and lifts his shoulder in a helpless shrug. He draws his attention over to the mantel where the photos of Astoria sit, captured memories both still and in motion. “I— I’m not ready to let her go.” 

Harry’s eyes track Draco’s stare. He doesn’t speak for a long time, but his mouth hangs open, speechless. In some other conversation, Draco would make a comment about Harry catching flies, but right now the broken look on his face is too agonising. He turns away again.

“What the fuck?” Harry says in disbelief. “Let her— We— We didn’t let her go, Draco! We never—” He swallows hard. “No one is saying you have to let her go,” Harry manages, his voice thick. “I never asked that of you.”

“You’re right, you didn’t,” Draco agrees, staring out into the night. Tonight there’s a full moon and its dim light reflects off the waves. “And I’m never going to.”

“But we can—”

“There is no ‘we’.”

“Draco, you can’t just _give_ up—” 

Draco’s neck snaps to Harry, his eyes narrowed. “I’m not giving anything up. If I’ve led you to believe that whatever we were doing was serious, then I’m sorry. Astoria is everything to me, don’t you get it? Don’t you understand how hard it is to wake up in the morning and not feel like I’m dying? How many times I’ve had to cobble myself together to be strong for Scorpius?” He huffs a spiteful laugh. “No. You don’t.” 

“Fuck you,” Harry spits. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever lost someone? Get the fuck in line. This isn’t about Astoria.” Harry points to the mantel “This is about you being too scared to admit that you may be—”

“Don’t,” Draco warns. The heat in his chest flares throughout his body and he’s dizzy with rage. “Don’t you even say it.” 

“She would want you to live!” Harry cries, his voice shaking. “Just because she died doesn’t mean you have to die, too!” 

Draco releases his arms, and clenches his teeth so hard, pain blooms into his temples. It takes every ounce of his being not to walk up and punch Harry in the face. Instead he draws close, their noses a mere breath apart and snarls, “Get. Out.”

Harry’s expression shifts, and Draco realizes that something has broken inside of him. They stand in silence, staring at each other. The churning in Draco’s stomach will surely give way—the well of bravado he is tapping into is running low—before he ends up getting sick on Harry’s shoes. That would be just perfect. 

Then as quick as the flutter of a Snitch, Harry’s expression morphs into a blank stare. His eyes don’t betray him anymore, the tightness of his frown is gone. Instead he looks at Draco the same as he would a stranger on the street, a passerby at the grocery store. 

“Fine,” he answers in a dispassionate tone. He turns to leave.

Draco barely hears the door shut before his knees buckle and he falls to the floor. It requires herculean effort, but Draco makes it to the sofa. Short breaths escape his body in aggressive exhales, and he squeezes his eyes shut to stave off the mixed beginnings of a panic attack and a long-delayed emotional breakdown. 

He has to leave. Draco _Accios_ his wand and heads for the Floo.


	20. Chapter 20

**  
**-August 2020-**  
**

  
Draco ends up in a shitty magical pub off Diagon Alley, mainly because he looks like a plebeian, having Apparated in his pyjamas, but also because he doesn’t want to deal with more people than necessary.

As a result, he gets thoroughly pissed. 

“My, you look like hell delivered on death’s door,” Pansy says, slipping into the other side of the booth. A small bit of her hair is clipped in a small barrette on the top of her hair, which is a stark difference from her normal clean bobbed appearance. Draco’s eyes study her casual t-shirt and tilts his head. 

“Were you in the middle of catching up on a weekend marathon of Gossip Girl and I interrupted?” he asks, gulping down the last remnants of his whisky.

Pansy’s eyes are piercing. “You’re drunk.”

Draco lifts his empty glass. “And you are exceptional at observation. One wouldn’t function if it wasn’t for you, Pans.” He stands and wobbles a bit, holding onto the edge of the booth. “I’m going to get another.” 

A hand twists around his wrist, its grip tight. “No. You’re not. You will tell me what’s going on.”

Everything is blurry, the hanging lamps above the bar stretching tendrils of light across Draco’s vision. When he tries to follow their path, the room spins around him. He leans onto the table. 

“I think I may be sick,” he announces. 

There’s an annoyed huff off to his side and the grip Pansy has on his wrist disappears. In the space of a few beats she’s standing in front of him, her exasperation blatant. “You are so lucky that you’re in a magic bar,” she mutters, reaching into her pocket and producing a phial. “Drink this and drink it now.” 

The sobriety potion tastes like veritable crup shit, but Draco knocks it back in one go using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. “God,” he moans hoarsely, bracing for the potion to kick in before he gags. When the spinning sensation and nausea disappear, Draco wrenches his eyes open. 

“Sit,” Pansy commands, settling into the booth again. She searches Draco’s appearance: joggers and a thin t-shirt, his hair dishevelled. He started the evening with slippers on, but once he Apparated to the pub, he transfigured them into a somewhat passable slip-on, and he can tell that she’s unimpressed. 

“What the hell is going on with you?” Pansy says, her irritation heavy with concern. “It’s the middle of the night and you look like someone robbed you of your belongings and you found these in a skip.”

Draco drops his head in his hands. “I broke it off with Harry.”

“Oh Merlin and Morgana,” Pansy mutters to herself. “You are such a fucking twat, you know that?” 

Draco’s head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

Pansy’s head does an angry shake and levels a glare at him. “Draco, that man is hopelessly in love with you. To a stupid level. Besotted. Done for. Over the moon. And I’m aware that Astoria told you to have happiness, and you’re sabotaging yourself. For what?” 

Draco thins his eyes. “Are you here to give me a lecture? You made me sober for a _lecture_?”

“Well you seem to need one, seeing as you just made the biggest mistake of your—”

Draco slams his fist down on the table. “Enough!” he screams. 

Pansy rears back into her seat. The sound of glass clinking is a tinny noise over the pregnant silence. 

“I am so sick of everyone telling me how the fuck I’m supposed to deal with all of this. I want my wife back, damn it, and it’s never going to happen. I don’t want to find someone else, I want her. Don’t you get that?”

Pansy breathes deeply through her nose. “Yeah, Draco, I do. I get that you’re hurting. I understand you’re in pain. But you were never alone. Ever. She never wanted you to be. And here you are, fucking it up.” 

After she removes herself from her seat, Pansy looks so, so tall. “But I can’t watch you hurt yourself again. Not when I know that Astoria wanted so much more for you.” 

Before Draco responds, she’s walking out of the pub into the night, and Draco is alone.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
In Harry’s tenure at the DMLE, he has called out of work exactly four times.

Once was after James was born and Harry caught the flu from too many sleepless nights and not enough proper meals, almost sending him to a bed at St Mungo’s. The second was after Lily’s birth and Harry tried holding onto what he could in his marriage when he was out in the field instead of at home. The third time was when Albus had accidentally scratched him in the eye and he ended up on a regimen of disgusting antibiotic eye potions. The fourth time is the Monday after his fight with Draco. 

He is an utter idiot. The female role of a rom-com, crying into a pint of ice cream. But something about how Draco told him that their last several months together were not what Harry’d thought shifts something inside Harry. It makes him reevaluate everything around him, his happiness, and what he wants out of his life. 

By the time he gets to work on Tuesday, Harry is beyond sadness. He’s furious with Draco, furious that he allowed Draco in so close only to be shut out without a moment’s notice. When he arrives at work, he storms past everyone in the Atrium, and his expression must show his fury, because employees and patrons part for him like he’s Moses and they’re the sea. Lift passengers exit in a hurry, leaving him alone for the entire trip to his floor. 

No one says good morning; no one even bothers to ask him about his weekend. A silence falls over the entire department save for the scratching of quills, the rustle of parchment. When Harry reaches his office, brushing past Tracy, he barks, “Cancel all of my meetings today.”

Tracy snaps up from her chair to follow Harry into his office just as she always does, but this time gives him a wide berth. “But you have that important departmental meeting with—” 

“Goddamnit, Tracy,” Harry snaps, spinning around, his robes tangling between his legs. “I said cancel all my meetings. You’re not here to ask questions, you’re here to do what I tell you to do. If you can’t manage that, then you know where the bloody door is.” 

Tracy stops, her face growing stony. “Yes, sir,” she clips in a cold tone, closing Harry’s office door with enough muscle to leave Harry’s ears ringing.

He rips his robes off with too much force, hearing the sound of more than a few threads snapping, and tosses them onto a spare chair before pulling himself closer to his desk. It’s only then that everything he said to Tracy catches up with him. He snaps his glasses off, rests his elbows on the desk, and puts his face into his hands. 

“This is so fucking stupid,” Harry says to no one, giving his face an aggressive scrub. A flurry of parchment tornadoes around the room. Harry drops his hands and shakes his head. “So fucking stupid.” 

The office is too closed off and stifling. He hasn’t even been at work for 20 minutes and he’s already snapped at his assistant, who has saved his arse countless times over the years, and he’s almost to the point of either smashing his fist into the wall or setting off some accidental magic and hurting someone.

He has to get out of here.

**\--**

  
“I knew I’d find you here,” Ginny says, settling on the bench next to Harry.

Harry’s eyebrows crease. “How did you—”

“Tracy texted me.” Ginny studies Harry’s face. “She’s worried about you. And she’s pretty fucked off. For good reason.” 

Harry closes his eyes and groans. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just…”

“I know,” Ginny says with such honest and naked sincerity that for a brief, wonderful moment, he isn’t so shattered. 

They sit in silence, watching groups of strangers passing by, carrying bags of purchased items, pushing babies in buggies, going to work in their too-expensive and too-tight suits, holding coffee in a takeaway cup in one hand and a mobile in another. 

“So what happened?” Ginny asks, eyes steady on people watching. She’s been careful since she got here, even keeping a small distance between them on the bench. 

“What always happens. Things end.” 

This time, Ginny turns. Her hair shimmers in the sunlight, like light reflecting off the dance of the sea. 

“Did he say why?” 

Harry searches his mind for an answer. “Yes? No?” He combs his fingers through his hair. “Hell, I don’t know. Ask him yourself. See if he can give you a proper answer.”

“If I come into contact with him anytime soon, he’ll be without eyebrows for a solid month,” Ginny vows. 

Harry laughs, the feeling foreign. It’s the first laugh he’s had in days. Ginny scoots closer, tentative at first but soon settling into comfort to rest her hand over his. Her palms are smaller than Draco’s, less bony, and the swell of comfort mixed with the pangs of loss is exhausting. 

“He said we weren’t dating, that I was never his boyfriend,” Harry confesses, and the embarrassing shame washes over him again. “God, I’m such a moron.”

“He what?” Ginny exclaims, earning a few nervous stares from people walking by. “He said what?”

Harry waves a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.” 

“Like hell it doesn’t bloody matter!” Ginny snaps, yanking on Harry’s shirt so they’re face to face. “I’m gonna kill that bastard.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t leave Scorpius an orphan,” Harry says, dryly, hoping that dark humour will help assuage the mixture of feelings. “He doesn’t deserve that.” And then realisation settles. “Oh god, Gin, I know you’re in mother dragon mode, but we can’t let things change with Scorpius.”

Ginny levels a deadpan stare. “Harry. Of course not. What do you take me for? I’m not a heartless bitch. Scorp is just lucky he’s not a fucking wankstain like his dad.” She pauses for a beat, tilting her head back and forth. “Who is also a grade-A fucktard.”

“That he is,” Harry agrees. The grade-A fucktard he’s in love with. He wishes he could take it all back. 

But he knows that’s a complete lie.

Harry’s throat grows tight, and the sting in his eyes rises to the point that he can’t ignore it anymore. He attempts to blink back the blurriness in his vision because he’s sitting on a public bench getting weepy like a melodramatic sodding fool. 

“Yup, he’s definitely losing those perfectly manicured eyebrows,” Ginny says out loud to herself. “I’m gonna fuck him up.” 

“He said he wasn’t ready to let her go.”

Ginny doesn’t speak for a long time before she whispers, “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” Ginny slumps back onto the bench. “That’s— That’s...really serious.” Harry knows he’s being watched, Ginny’s concern radiating off of her, surging and crashing over him. Harry realises with an internal sense of awe, it’s her magic. 

When they lock eyes, he smiles in amazement. “Do you know the last time I could sense your magic like that?” 

Ginny ducks her head to hide her smile. “Sorry, I didn’t even realise I did that.”

Harry clasps their hands together. “It’s comforting.” Ginny laces their fingers, leans her head on his shoulder, and this contact is also comforting, edging back the electric buzz of nerves spreading throughout Harry’s body.

“I’m really sorry, love,” Ginny whispers. “Grief is a terrible beast. I’m sure he’s dealing with a lot of emotions.” She tilts her head up, “Isn’t the anniversary of her funeral coming up?”

Harry nods.

Ginny whistles low. “Wow, yeah. That’s heavy.” She pauses for a beat, curling up against Harry a little more, and he rests his cheek against the soft crown of her head. “He’s still a fucking wankstain, though, and if I see him, I will at the very least be sending a stinging hex to his bollocks. He won’t be able to walk properly for a solid week.”

Harry chuckles. “You’re incredible.” 

“I know,” Ginny says matter-of-factly. She raises Harry’s hand up to her lips, leaving a chaste kiss. “Give it time, Harry. He loves you, but he just doesn’t know it yet.”

Harry closes his eyes and inhales a long, winded sigh. When he speaks, his vocal cords are tight. “You think so?”

Ginny untangles herself and stands up. “I know so. Come on, let’s get something to eat at that one place you love. I’m starving.”

There’s an odd bubbling inside of Harry’s chest, tender and pleasant. 

It isn’t until they’re near their destination he realises what it is: hope.

**\--**

  
Harry returns to the office with a large speciality concoction that cost him several quid from Tracy’s favourite coffee shop.

He also brought her favourite biscuits. 

...And her favourite sweets. 

It’s smart to be prepared, after all. If there’s anything Harry’s learned from being raised by Molly Weasley and married to her only daughter is that, when one offers an olive branch, do it as close to begging as possible. Harry’s not above that. 

Tracy, idly reading over the Daily Prophet, doesn’t look up when he enters his office. Her desk is immaculate, a stark difference to its usual chaos. She doesn’t look up when Harry sets the takeaway cup down on the newspaper. In a few more page flips, she speaks.

“And the prodigal son returns.”

Harry bites his bottom lip to stave the smile from breaking on his face. “He has.”

Her eyes flicker over the coffee, but it remains untouched. “And why am I owed this creation in front of me?”

Harry knows she’s demanding that he admit his wrongdoing. He knows he should. He feels awful about it all, and the heat in his cheeks acknowledges that. 

“An apology.” He reaches into the bag and produces the biscuits and sweets and sets them on top of the newspaper. “Amongst other things.” 

At this, Tracy leans back in her seat and crosses her arms. Her eyes trail up to Harry’s and he’s relieved that the cold dispassionate appearance fades. And the calm, inscrutable look, too. She should’ve been a bloody Auror. 

“You do nothing half-arsed, that’s for sure.” Tracy leans forward to rest her elbows on her desk. “I will not ask the details of whatever happened, because it’s not any of my business. I considered that our work relationship may have strayed into unprofessional territory, and thought about changing departments.”

Harry’s stomach swan dives into his feet. He’s at a loss for words. When he opens his mouth to speak, Tracy holds her hand up. He snaps it shut with a click.

“Considered, Harry, I’m not going to do it,” she assures. “We’ve been working together for a long time. I’ve seen you pretty fucked off before, but you’ve never taken it out on me. That’s how I was aware it wasn’t because of anything going on here.” 

Harry wipes his hands against his jeans, drying his sweaty palms. “Ginny told me you called her.”

“I did,” Tracy says. “You don’t have to isolate yourself. There are people out there who care about you, really care about you. You don’t have to deal with this alone.” She reaches for the coffee and takes a drink, her eyes fluttering shut with bliss. “Perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry whispers, his throat tight. “I’m sorry.”

“I know. Which is why I used your vault account information to go buy those indecently expensive dress robes I’d been eyeing at Madam Malkin’s this afternoon. And I went to that new farm-to-table restaurant too.” She gives a wide smile. “Thanks for lunch.”

Harry tilts his head back and barks out a laugh. “Tracy, never change.”

“Not planning on it,” Tracy says. Harry squeezes her shoulder on the way to his office. “Oh and Harry?” Harry spins to face her again. “If you ever talk to me like that again, I will hex your bollocks to your arsehole so permanently you’ll have to go to St Mungo’s.”

“What is up with witches and hexing our reproductive organs?” Harry wonders in disbelief. 

“Men are highly attached to them and we know it,” Tracy supplies. “Get back to being the Head of the DMLE. You have a lot of memos to reply to that I didn’t do for you.”

Harry smiles and for once believes this will be okay.  
****

***.*.*.***

  
Three days later, Pansy walks into Draco’s living room with the ease of someone who lives in his house. Scorpus is playing on his DS4—a new purchase that Draco indulged in because he had been feeling so guilty about everything as of late, and the glowing joy that resonates on Scorpius’s face makes it well worth it—but when Scorpius sees Pansy, he stands, points to the stairs, and stammers.

“I have to— There are things—” He stops to take a breath. “Yeah, I’m leaving.” 

Scorpius turns and is up in his room in the time it would’ve taken him to Disapparate. 

Pansy doesn’t sit down, just stares at Draco in silence, and he knows that she’s attempting (but failing) to shutter her appearance. He knows her, knows that the edges her lips are turned down and that she wants so to say something but is waiting. 

So Draco speaks. 

“You were right,” he says. Pansy intakes a sharp breath and Draco holds his hand up to stop her from replying. “I’m not the only one who lost Astoria. Your fiancée lost her sister, and you lost a sister-in-law. I’m not alone.”

Pansy deflates a little and walks to sit on the opposite side of the sofa. “And what else of that conversation?”

Draco shifts his focus onto the mantel, where he and Harry said the last words they had spoken to each other. Neither one of them, in their own stubbornness, had bothered to reach out to the other. 

“What about it?” 

Pansy rolls her eyes. “Draco.”

Draco shifts in his seat. “What do you want me to do? Send an owl begging for forgiveness?”

“Would that be so below you?” 

Draco hitches a shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe.”

Pansy eyes him with scrutiny. “You’re bluffing.”

Leaning back into the sofa, Draco closes his eyes. “It’s too late.”

“And how do you know that?”

He rolls his head to Pansy and scoffs. “Because you didn’t see the look in his eyes. Everything shut down, it was like...he was a different person.” He looks to the ceiling again. “It’s FUBAR.”

Pansy pauses for a moment. “Fu-wha?”

Draco waves a dismissive hand. “Fucked up beyond any repair. It’s a Harry-ism.”

Pansy sprawls onto the sofa, her feet resting on Draco’s lap. He takes her ankle into his palm. “She wrote us a last letter, you know,” Pansy confesses, her voice so quiet Draco strains to hear. “She wanted to make sure you didn’t punish yourself about her death. She wanted to make sure—” Pansy stops and swallows. Draco knows she’s holding back tears. “She wanted to make sure that you could find love again. Doesn’t that mean something? Doesn’t that mean _anything_ to you?”

Draco stares at the ceiling, listening to the beating of his heart in his ears over the breeze of the ocean in the background, the crash of the waves on the seashore. The seashore where Astoria used to love to take Scorpius to watch the sunset. The seashore where she used to dance against the waves. The seashore she walked along until she couldn’t walk anymore.

“It does,” Draco says.

Pansy shifts until she’s grasping both of Draco’s hands. Her eyes shimmer against the cascading light of the afternoon, helpless and pleading. “Then accept it and stop punishing yourself.” 

Draco’s mouth is dry. He swallows around the heart that has leaped into his throat, and he squeezes the knuckles of Pansy’s fingers with reverence.

“What should I do?” he asks.

Pansy cups his chin, and places a warm kiss on his cheek. “I think you already know the answer to that, don’t you?”

He does. But he isn’t sure he’s ready for it.

**\--**

  
It’s a pulsing beat inside of Draco’s brain. About Harry, about what he has to do to reconcile, about the brewing panic that it may not work. But alongside that, Draco must also focus on being a decent father and getting his teenage son ready for the new school year. While he’s had a tremendous amount of help parenting without Astoria, this whole doing-it-on-your-own is for the fucking birds. None of the wizard parenting help books covered this outcome. Sometimes, in his most bitter moments, he wants to write to the publishers to inform them of a whole demographic they are forsaking.

Either way, Scorpius eats like a fucking beast and they must make bi-weekly trips to the Tesco located close to 30 minutes away from the village.

Scorpius babbles away about a new game that he and Albus are playing together, and of their ongoing nightly updates that continue far too late into the evening. Which then results in Scorpius sleeping until far too late the morning. Draco doesn’t admonish him for it, knowing that soon he will be at Hogwarts and within the structure of a schedule. At least that’s what he tells himself when he thinks about the looming date ahead. 

Draco is half listening as Scorpius continues nattering on about ‘catching them all', when he’s accosted by a small black cat near the entrance to the Tesco. It howls an aggressive meow as it bolts up to him, halting Draco in his path. The little creature takes that as an invitation to rub against Draco’s legs. He tries hard not to cringe. He’s wearing his good jeans. 

“Oh hullo,” Scrorpius croons, squatting down to the little kitten who pads over to Scorpius’s hand and rubs against it with an aggressive headbutt. “Oh my days, you are the cutest thing _ever_,” he whispers to himself, petting the animal all the way from its head to the tip of its tail.

The animal’s purr is so intense, Draco can hear the vibrating purrs from where he’s standing. With a mixture of horror and overwhelming devotion, Draco witnesses Scorpius pick the little furball up and hold it in his arms. It begins head-butting Scorpius’s chin.

“Dad, we have to take it home,” Scorpius demands in earnest. When Draco attempts to level a stare at Scorpius, he continues. “It has been sitting in this car park for who knows how long, and it chose _you_. It needs us.” Scorpius gazes down at the little black cat and speaks to it as if Draco isn’t standing next to him. “He needs you, too, but he doesn’t realise it.”

The warmth that encompasses Draco’s heart is overwhelming. 

And that is how they ended up forgoing grocery shopping to bring home a cat.

**\--**

  
Aurora—or Rory, as Scorpius refers to her—is, much to Draco’s chagrin, utterly adorable. After a quick bit of mobile phone research, Scorpius rattles off a list of supplies they need for Rory to transfer her from her car park home to theirs. When they get back to the house with several bags of items, ranging from a cat carrier to a case of cat food so expensive Draco virtually faints, the kitten does a healthy inspection of the house and settles on the sofa.

“The lady at the pet store said that we should get her checked by a vet,” Scorpius says while typing away on his phone. Draco does not understand how he manages that. “Vaccines, make sure she’s healthy and all that.” He tucks the mobile into his pocket and sits next to the sleeping cat, brushing a single knuckle over her head. 

“We can talk to Elizabeth,” Draco suggests. “She knows about Muggle animals and such.” 

Scorpius smiles and nods. “I’m sure you’re not thrilled about keeping her, but I think she’ll help you.” His fingertips rove back and forth over Rory’s head, and she shuffles in her sleeping position to her back to expose her belly, tiny paws tucking under her chin. 

“Help me?” Draco echoes. 

Scorpius nods, focused on petting the cat. “So you won’t be lonely.” When he makes eye contact with Draco, his expression is a mix of sombre and concerned. “I don’t know what happened with Harry but you’re sad again, and I think maybe…” He peers down at Rory. “Maybe she can help with that.” 

It happens fast; Draco is crossing the living room and cannot stop from scooping Scorpius up and wrapping him in a hug. He’s been so strong through all of this, and Draco admires that, at such a young age, Scorpius can navigate through his own grief to find the time to worry about him. There’s that swell of emotion again, full of such an incredible amount of unconditional love for this beautiful being that Draco and Astoria created together. 

“Thank you,” Draco whispers.

Scorpius pulls back, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What for?” 

Draco squeezes his son’s shoulder. “For everything.” 

Scorpius chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dad, you’re so weird.” 

“Yeah, but you love me,” Draco jokes. 

Scorpius walks backwards towards the stairs and says, “Yup. But I’ll never admit that in public.” 

Draco laughs as Scorpius bounds up the stairs to his room.

**\--**

  
Elizabeth’s small cottage sits on the north end of the village, so it’s a bit of a walk. Draco takes his time ambling up the cobblestone paths. The weather is warmer than usual, the sun bright in a cloudless sky, and he’s sweating a little by the time he reaches the path to her front door.

The cottage is small with a low-lying thatched roof. Flowers and plants decorate the small bit of land surrounding the house, including an equally impressive garden in the back. Several wind chimes strewn over the small front porch create tinny music in the sea wind. 

Before Draco raps at the door, it opens, revealing Elizabeth in wellies, a peasant skirt, and covered in dirt. Her long silver hair is free flowing today, and she looks as though she was created out of earth, dirt caked on her hands and smudged on her cheek.

“Draco!” Elizabeth says with a pleasant wave of affection. She peers down at her state and chuckles. “Please forgive me, I have been repotting some new blooms to sell at the co-op and preparing for a summer harvest. Come in.” 

Draco follows her inside. The house has a pleasant scent of sugar and citrus, muddled with the briny air of the ocean. He takes in a deep inhale, watching several things all happening at once: the mixing of something in a bowl in the kitchen, a mortar and pestle at work, and off in the corner, the beginnings of what appears to be another one of Elizabeth’s famous afghans that are so beloved by the village. The waves of magic are warm and inviting, embracing him in a heated and loving hug. 

When he first moved to the village with Astoria, Elizabeth’s magic was an omnipresent comfort to Draco and he often wanted to wade in it. He’d come and visit her for hours, drinking tea and eating scones that she made fresh daily. She taught Astoria all about Muggle and Wizarding gardening, offering tips on how to merge the two so that the garden she wanted could thrive in the brash seaside conditions. 

Adrift in his thoughts, Draco misses the teacup with two biscuits put in front of him. He blinks twice. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’re welcome, love.” Elizabeth pads to the large overflowing chair in the small living room, offering a stretched out palm at Draco to sit. 

“So what brings you here today? I have missed seeing you, but I assume the lack of your appearance must be related to a handsome gentleman frequenting your home.” When Draco chokes on his sip of tea, she chuckles. “The village talks, Draco. You should use discretion more often.” 

“Duly noted,” Draco rasps, setting his tea down.

Elizabeth’s eyes are searching, gathering information from Draco’s thoughts. She takes a generous sip of her tea before setting it next to her on the round side table. “You haven’t been sleeping well,” she notes. “Bad dreams?”

Draco rubs the back of his neck. “Not exactly.” 

“Ah,” Elizabeth says, as if that was the answer she was expecting. Instead she continues to wait for Draco to speak. He sighs. 

“I may have made a mistake,” he admits. “I was happy. Really, genuinely happy for a few months. Someone helped me find that. And then it happened all at once—Astoria’s last letter she wrote, and the anniversary of her funeral coming up, and Scorpius about to go back go Hogwarts. It—” He swallows. “It was too much.”

Elizabeth hums. “Astoria always worried about you. She knew that her life would be short, and she loved you so much. She agonised over everything for you and Scorpius. But she was most concerned that you would feel you didn’t deserve love after her.” She pins Draco with her gaze. “She knew you very well.” 

Draco’s laugh has a hysterical edge to it. He nods in agreement, folding his hands in his lap, and avoiding Elizabeth’s gaze. 

“You’ve spent much of your life punishing yourself. You’ve paid the penance of several lifetimes, I’m certain of it. It’s time to consider putting that to rest and allowing love into your heart again.”

“But how am I going to do that?” Draco’s voice is hoarse. “I don’t want to replace her.”

“Draco, darling, that is a sheer impossibility. If this person—who has brought you this joy—cares about you, they will never request that of you.” Elizabeth’s eyes crinkle as she smiles, shining in the setting sunlight. “You’ve lived most of your life waiting for the bridge to collapse. Don’t spend the rest of your days expecting that.” 

Draco stays through the afternoon, and when he walks home, he takes the long route, walking along the cliff. He stands against the edge, closes his eyes, and takes in a deep breath of the sea, stinging with salt and sour in the back of his throat. It feels like the first real breath he’s been able to take in a year.


	21. Chapter 21

**  
**-August 2020-**  
**

  
The owl that circles the garden of Grimmauld Place is unrecognisable when it interrupts Harry setting up the charcoal grill for a summer barbecue. Everyone’s caught wind of his fight with Draco and they’ve been making extra efforts to invite him over. All Harry wanted to do was be alone and binge watch something from Netflix, but Ginny won’t stand for it this Saturday afternoon. Instead, he’s assigned to grilling, a task that’s been his for years.

It isn’t until the owl hoots on the Adirondack chair several times in a row with increasing volume that Harry’s pulled from his thoughts back to the task in front of him: to make sure he does not burn the burgers and hot dogs. 

The owl isn’t having it. It pointedly shoves its leg out, a shrunken folded square hanging from the lower joint of its foot. Harry removes it and gives the owl a small bit of hamburger, shrugging his shoulder when it tilts its head in inspection. “Take it or leave it, it’s all I’ve got and I’m not going back inside.” 

He can almost see the creature roll its eyes. Owls are too smart for their own good. The parchment readjusts its size in Harry’s hand when he stares down at it, the calligraphy swooping into view as if it’s being written in front of him.

_For a Time of Celebration  
A year in our Hearts  
You are Cordially Invited to the Celebration of Astoria Greengrass Malfoy’s—_

The parchment falls from Harry’s hands. His sternum tightens like his lungs are being crushed by his ribs and his vision swims. Harry sets an alarm on his wand and sits down on the Adirondack chair to quell the gallop in his chest.

With a shaky hand he brushes his fingers through his hair, that familiar tic a comfort. Why would Draco invite him to a celebration of Astoria—some sick, twisted way of shoving the knife deeper into his heart? It feels like a cruel gesture and the rage building overwhelms the hurt. He snatches up the parchment, planning to pitch it into the rubbish bin, when a separate folded bit slips onto the ground.

And it’s addressed to Harry. In Draco’s handwriting. 

Harry wants to spit on it. 

He stares at the offending bit of paper, now soiled from the damp earth, like they’re in an epic staring contest. The letter wins.

Harry scrubs a hand over his face and shakes his head. He’s being daft. Beyond daft. He can handle this, right? How many times has he been faced with darkness and danger and made it through, head held high? 

He will not allow a piece of paper to bring him to his knees. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Although, with the roiling in his stomach and the dizzy spinning of his head, he wonders if he will pass out from bending over. He may as well test the theory out. 

He can feel the familiar tendrils of Draco’s magic on the letter, subtle but present. Harry’s chest aches at the way he misses it. With a deep, fortifying breath, Harry opens the letter in his hand.

> _  
Harry,_
> 
> _I’m aware that this invitation may come as a shock to you, and I realise that my actions may have caused significant irreparable damage between us. I want to explain some of my actions and extend a proper apology for others, if you are amenable to listening. _
> 
> _The invitation is for the first year without Astoria. In many ways, she would have liked you to be there, even if the two of you never became formally acquainted. _
> 
> _Scorpius is also enquiring as to whether Albus will attend this celebration. Please fill out the information attached so we can have a proper count of everyone who has RSVP’d. Pansy is planning the event, so the count is of utmost importance. _
> 
> _I hope you will attend with Al. _
> 
> _I’ve missed you._
> 
> _Best,  
Draco L. Malfoy  
_

  
Harry doesn’t realise that his hands are shaking until the letter is a blurred mess. There’s a curling scream rising inside of him, like the swell of a mudslide raging through the streets of a village. He grinds his teeth until the timer on his wand goes off. He won’t burn the food. Harry shoves the letters into his pocket and focuses on the supper with his family. He can do that for now.

**\--**

  
After the kids have eaten their weight in burgers and salad, they bound upstairs to their Fortnite match. Jamie and Albus bicker about who will win, and Lily, ever the firestarter, eggs them on until they almost begin hexing themselves.

Ginny rolls her eyes and trails after them, ready to revoke all their gaming privileges. It only takes five minutes for her to show up to the sitting room where Harry is studying the Black family tree, his focus on Draco’s name, gilded and bright. 

“Sickle for your thoughts?” Ginny asks, shoving a beer into Harry’s hand. “Look like you wanted one,” she explains when Harry’s eyebrows furrow together. 

It takes several beats of strained silence before Ginny bumps her shoulder against Harry’s arm, waving an expectant hand in front of her. “The kids are occupied,” she says. “I’ve got time.” 

Harry bites his bottom lip, studying the filigree on the wall, the names etched in sparkling gold. 

“Draco wrote me a letter,” he says into the heavy silence. “He wants me to come to this event for Astoria. Scorpius also wants Al to attend.” 

Ginny purses her lips and hums thoughtfully. “You should go.” 

Harry shrugs. “I suppose.”

“You should,” Ginny repeats. “You want to, but you’re hating yourself that you do.”

After taking a long pull of his beer, Harry shakes his head. “It would be great if I could catch a break from the fact that you know me like you’re a Legilimens.”

Ginny chuckles. “Well, Harry, we’ve been in each other’s lives longer than we’ve been adults. I don’t understand what else you’d expect.”

He sighs and rolls his head, trying to stave off the tension in his neck. “You honestly think I should go?”

“Yes,” Ginny says without hesitation. She walks up to the wall, her fingertips tracing over Harry’s name right under Sirius and then moves to trail over Draco’s. The luminescence of Harry’s name shines more than Draco’s because the magic is newer, but their names sit closer together than Harry ever noticed. 

“It would be good for Al,” Harry concedes. 

Ginny’s hand drops to her side and her face is soft when she looks over her shoulder. “It’ll be good for you both.”  
****

***.*.*.***

  
“You look incredible,” Pansy says, from her position on the edge of Draco’s bed, crossing one leg over the other in a fluid motion. “Like sex on fire.”

Draco narrows his eyes at Pansy’s reflection in the mirror. “This is a celebration of my deceased wife, not some swingers party. I don’t want to be sex on fire.”

“Oh yes you do,” Pansy insists, planting two hands behind her and elongating her body. Rory jumps on the bed and walks over to headbutt Pansy on her arm. Pansy turns and kisses the cat’s head. “Because you’re hoping Potter will show up. And if he shows up, well.” She hitches a shoulder. “Then you have to look like you’re a walking mating pheromone.” 

Draco scrunches his nose. “That sounds horrific. This town is predominantly retired fisherman.” 

“And all those people stare at your arse as often as they can.”

“Pans!” 

Pansy gives a mock-offended face. “Do not get tetchy with me. It’s not my fault you’re oblivious to such matters,” she sniffs, her hand stroking Rory in her lap. The cat’s purrs echo from across the room, and when Draco sneaks a glance at her, she remains happy in Pansy’s lap with eyes half-opened in unadulterated bliss.

“Traitor,” Draco mutters to Rory before turning his attention to his reflection again.

Draco smooths over the blazer again. Pansy insisted on a simple black t-shirt under a black blazer with tight-fitted jeans and boots, with the claim she was dressing him ‘casual chic’. Draco couldn’t care less about what he wore today, his nerves frazzled about the date and the silence from Harry since he sent the owl inviting him.

It doesn’t help that Pansy is unaware of the letter. 

“He’s not coming. What’s the point in being ‘sex on fire’, as you so eloquently put it, if he’s not coming?”

Pansy flings herself up from the bed and before Draco can register, she’s wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close. Draco, shocked by the intensity of her grip, takes a moment to notice that she’s shaking. He encircles her in his arms, rubbing a calming hand down her spine and over her hip. 

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling back to see an entire ocean of naked concern in her brown eyes. “It’ll be okay.”

“I know,” Pansy whispers. “I want you to be okay, though. I want you to accept that you loved him. That you still love him.” 

Draco’s mouth tilts into a sad smile. “Pans, I figured that out the night you found me in that pub. I think I always knew. I’m just a stubborn arse.”

“You are,” Pansy agrees, brushing the fringe off of Draco’s forehead. The gesture leaves his chest aching, and he misses Harry so much, a cavernous space in his heart like a missing limb. “But it’s what we love most about you.”

“I think what you love most about me is how ace I am at making tea,” Draco counters. 

Pansy hums, nodding her head in agreement. “You’re right. That’s the number one reason.”

“Dad!” Scorpius calls, his voice echoing down the hall. “Dad, are you decent? People are showing up and Aunt Daphne and I are waiting for you and Aunt Pansy to tell us what to do!”

“You ready?” Pansy asks, her eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and nervous energy. 

“As I’ll ever be,” Draco answers, reaching for Pansy’s hand and walking to the door. Scorpius is standing in the doorway, his arms filled with a stack of objects that Draco is unfamiliar with.

“They’re Chinese Lanterns!” Scorpius exclaims, then pauses and wrinkles his eyebrows. “Well, they’re a magical lantern that will vanish the moment it reaches a height outside of view, but Aunt Daphne told me we should call them Chinese Lanterns so we conceal their magic.” He hums, studying the lanterns. “It makes little sense when you think about it, seeing as we aren’t in China or of Chinese descent. Muggles are just weird.” Scorpius adds as an afterthought, “No weirder than wizards, though!” 

“Right you are there, Scorp,” Pansy agrees, following behind him as he bounds down the stairs with surprising precision considering how full his arms are. Rory follows close behind.

“Aunt Daphne, Dad and Pansy are coming!” Scorpius yells as he turns the corner. 

Draco tries to suppress an eye roll. “Scorpius, you do not have to scream like a banshee to convey what you are trying to communicate. How many times do I have to tell you that when we are inside, we use— Oh fuck!” Draco all but yells, interrupting his lecture on inside voices.

Because Harry and Albus are standing in the middle of his living room, with Daphne off to the side. 

“So I was telling Harry and Albus about the lighting ceremony we will have after sunset, and about the gathering at the cover and—” Daphne stops, her eyes flicking to Draco. 

Draco doesn’t register the words because his focus is on Harry, standing in his living room, in the same spot Draco last saw him before he disappeared into the night rain. He looks nervous, his hand twitching at his side. The dark blue shirt is half tucked into his grey trousers, his hair pulled back into a neat, low ponytail. Draco’s more basic instincts want to push him against the mantel and rip his clothes off, but that’s dulled by his head’s screaming mantra of, _He came! He actually came!_

The silence is broken by Scorpius dropping the lanterns onto the sofa and wrapping Albus in a hug. When they break apart, Scorpius looks between Draco and Harry and says, “Time to make that awkward exit, Al.” He reaches down and grabs Rory. “And it’s time to introduce you to Rory.”

“I reckon so,” Albus agrees and they disappear outside into the back garden. Draco watches Pansy and Daphne follow, a knowing smirk on Pansy’s face when she closes the door. 

Harry’s gaze on Draco burns. He doesn’t look angry or upset or sad like he did the night of their fight—he looks shuttered, with no emotion at all, and Draco hates it. He hates it so much. He wants to kiss it all away, beg for forgiveness and understanding, for another attempt at anything.

“Um, I’m glad you came,” Draco manages, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

“Are you?” Harry asks in a low voice. It’s then that Draco recognises the expression on Harry’s face—he’s scared.

“Yes,” Draco says, his hand balling into a fist. “I—I didn’t think you would. You never RSVP’d,” he says when Harry raises an eyebrow. 

Harry inhales in a deep breath. “I didn’t decide until this morning.” 

“Right,” Draco says, just to fill the space with something besides silence. He can feel the tension between them like a physical force, crushing into his chest like a tsunami threatening to pull him out with the undertow.

“You said you had something to tell me?” Harry offers, cocking one hip and crossing his arms. It’s a protective gesture, Draco knows, and he ends up shoving his hands into his pockets and closing his eyes to gain his composure. 

“Why don’t we sit?”

Harry waits. “I prefer to stand.”

_To make an easy exit?_ Draco wants to snap back, but bites his cheek instead. “Right. Standing is fine. Um,” he begins, and coughs. “Right. I think I should start with an apology. That night you came over...You had every right to be angry.”

“I know,” Harry says with confidence. 

“But what you don’t know,” Draco continues, “is that a week before, Astoria— She had sent a letter. There were always letters; they would come all the time, and it...it kept me afloat, you know? Like, that she was still here even if she wasn’t, and it meant I didn’t have to let her go just yet, I had _control_ over losing her.” He pauses and inhales a shaky breath. “But then you happened. And everything changed.”

The hardened exterior on Harry’s face shifts a little. 

Draco continues on. He knows if he doesn’t he’ll back out and then he will never have this chance again. “You made me feel...alive. Being with you was incredible. I wanted to be with you all the time, and I missed you when I wasn't. Everything happened so fast and it was so easy and I didn’t know how to navigate that—because Astoria is gone and I love her so much but then you were just…_you_.” Draco gestures at Harry. “You with your smile and your hair and your bloody t-shirts, and oh fuck me, I’m babbling, this is getting so fucking embarrassing, stop me before I go jump off the cliff.”

“You said we weren’t boyfriends,” Harry says softly. “You said it like I was—like I was delusional for thinking that. For even conceiving of it.” 

“I know,” Draco admits, looking down at his hands. “I know you probably think I was lying, but I wasn’t. We’re not boyfriends.” When he looks at Harry again, Harry’s eyes are narrowed and fierce, his lips turned down in anger. “We’re more than that. You’re—You’re my family. You’re everything. And I was too scared to see that.” 

Harry snorts. Draco opens his mouth to snipe a remark but before he can even get the words out, Harry is in his space, cupping his face and kissing him. His lips are rough, and taste of salt from the air, and he smells like the earth after a hard rain, and Draco missed this, he missed it so much. He never wants to let this go, never wants to give up on Astoria either, but he realises now that the whole time, Astoria wanted him to have this, to have the warmth of love, the joy of happiness.

And Harry wants to give him that. 

“Wait,” Draco gasps, pulling away, his hands gripping at Harry’s wrists. “I have more to say.”

“Later,” Harry whispers against his lips. “We have all the time in the world.”

**\--**

  
Draco walks along the shingle beach, the sound of the rocks crunching underneath his boots. The sea remains calm today, slanted sun reflecting off the flat surface. Draco remembers staring into it a year before, and how he wished it would swallow him. Today Draco is a part of it, a part of the rocks, the sand, the waves, the sun. He’s a part of the birds coasting above the surface.

It feels different and yet it’s exactly the same. 

The celebration will begin after sundown. Friends of the village are already gathering around full of happy smiles and excitement for the festivities. Draco introduced Harry to Elisabeth, who wrapped him in a warm embrace, whispering something into his ear that made him blush. Draco plans to find out later what she said. 

In the distance, the sky shifts into a palette of rich colours—rose, orange, and purple. They swirl together in large brush strokes, and in it all Draco can see Astoria, can see her insistence for him to live. 

Scorpius will go off to his fourth year in a week, and while it tugs at Draco’s heart to see him off, he knows that they will be okay. It will take time, but they will get used to not having Astoria with them at the platform, giving Scorpius chocolates for his friends, and waiting for him with excitement when he exits the train home. They will text, and write, and think of her always. 

Draco misses her. He misses her, but he knows that he was punishing himself for the loss instead of seeing how much she wanted him to find life, to find happiness. Draco can now say he is happy.

He hears the scrunch of shoes against the shore, and smiles, eyes trained in the distance. 

“There you are,” Harry says. “I’ve been looking for you.” 

“I know,” Draco replies, turning towards Harry. What he doesn’t say is how long he’s been looking for Harry. He reaches for Harry’s hand, laces their fingers together and turns back to the horizon. “Stay. The sunset is beautiful this time of year.” 

Harry squeezes Draco’s palm. 

He stays.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to Masterchill for making me this INCREDIBLE art for my birthday! I am so happy to have this and have you in my life. 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at Buildyourwalls. Comments and Kudos are welcomed, but not at all mandatory <3 Thank you for reading this, and I hope you've enjoyed the ride.


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